You Were My Life
by nicknack22
Summary: A year after Sherlock's fall, John muses on where he is and what he's lost.  A good amount of angst that will eventually transition into something fluffy and fulfilling...John/Sherlock
1. Day by Day

Water in kettle. Kettle on the stove. Light stove. Mug from the cabinet. No, not that one that one was cut off his own thought abruptly This was how his days went: moment by moment, trying not to think, not to dwell on his loss on _his_ absence.

But damn it was difficult when Sherlock's presence was everywhere: the papers strewn across the floor; the experiments, unfinished, sitting on the kitchen table; the severed toes that rested, untouched, next to the milk in the refrigerator. There were, of course, other reminders. The lingering scent of Sherlock: gunpowder, ink, chemicals, expensive cologne, and something that was uniquely him. The skull also served as a constant reminder staring at John with vacant eyes from the mantel, a macabre tableau that did nothing to dispel the funereal aspect that had settled over the flat. A single blue scarf remained draped across the chair in the corner as if Sherlock had discarded it only moments ago (John couldn't bring himself to move it). An ironic smiley face in graffiti seemed to mock John's grief, leering down at him from the wall.

Perhaps, John thought, Sherlock's presence was most tangible in his absence. When Sherlock was here, John was caught up in a cyclone of activity: physical, mental, emotional, psychological. Now…well, now, it was quiet. So fucking quiet. No violin concerto at three in the morning, no gunshots fired in the middle of the afternoon, no cries of boredom, no jubilation over kidnappings and serial killers graced the sitting room of 221B Baker Street.

Worst of all though was that John expected these things, still, after months. He waited, almost with baited breath, for Sherlock to walk into the flat (walk, John, really? Have you forgotten so quickly the way he was?) _burst_ into the flat, scarf flying, trench coat billowing in his wake, adventure all about him, danger and excitement surrounding him like an aura.

Just thinking of _him_ was like a hand squeezing John's heart, applying pressure. He couldn't breathe for a moment. He couldn't think of Sherlock, couldn't picture him, without also seeing him on that final day. His dark hark matted; his beautiful grey eyes unfocused, unseeing; his pale skin covered in blood…He was gone, and John had never, he didn't-

"Don't think on it John, just don't." He had acquired a habit of speaking to himself, just to fill the silences when he could be bothered to speak at all. "Make tea, one thing at a time. Right."

That was what his therapist had advised; to take each moment as it came. Focus on simple tasks, manageable ones. She thought that he should establish routines, find some normalcy. He had laughed at that. His definition of "normal" had come to include severed heads in the freezer, dashes across the London rooftops at night, disguises, adventure, all of this wrapped up in the person of his beautiful brilliant flatmate, his best friend.

How the hell was he to recapture _that_ normalcy? There had been a time before Sherlock, before Baker Street. He knew that he had lived a life where he wasn't regularly whisked off the street to meet with "the British government" or kidnapped by psychopaths in the dead of night. A world where his happiness had not been inextricably tied to the mercurial man who had once called him his only friend…

That life _before_ Sherlock had been so empty. He had been so alone, so adrift. Sherlock had changed all of that. He had somehow irrevocably become the center of John Watson's world and without him, how bleak that world had become.

In the days right after Sherlock jumpe—died, John had spent most of his time just sitting in the flat, staring, not seeing, not really aware of anything. He forgot to eat, he couldn't sleep, he felt too much and yet nothing. Inside he was screaming, outside he stared, unseeing. He was a doctor, he had served in the army, he understood shock, he knew trauma, they were old friends, and yet, somehow, this grief, this all-encompassing pain, was worse than any physical or psychological injury he had ever experienced.

The day of the funeral had been wretched. It had been the first time that he had left the flat in days. Mrs. Hudson had wheedled him into a suit and bemoaned his situation. Lystrade had clapped him on the shoulder and offered his condolences. Mycroft had hovered on the periphery, face inscrutable as ever. And John? John had worn a soldier's mask. Presented a stoic front to the world, though he wished, god how he had wished, that it were his funeral, too. It might as well have been.

He went to the grave with frequency after that first time. He had asked for a miracle, hoped for one, but it still hadn't come, and he didn't know what else to do while he waited.

His therapist had asked him once, during their first session after…well, _after_, what he would have liked to have said. It took him three months to work up the courage to say it. Somehow the words were always stuck behind a sort of burning in his throat and eyes. Even in death, he somehow feared Sherlock's reaction.

"Right," he had begun look at the shining black gravemarker, a simple name engraved upon it. A light was falling from the sky and he could hear the faint call of birds in the distance and the scrape of a rake from a caretaker near the gates. "I don't know if you can hear me…though, if anyone would have figured out a way to hear things from beyond the grave, it would have been you…" He cleared his throat, trying to alleviate that damned burning sensation, he wiped at his eyes briskly, cleared his throat again.

"I miss you. The flat, hm, it's not the same without you, you know? My life, Sherlock, it isn't…it…without you here," John took a deep breath, "well…it's empty. Turns out, Sherlock…well, it turns out that you were my life.

"My bloody therapist, she thinks, well she thinks I ought to say what I never told you when you were ali—here, when you were here," He laughed wetly, "Mycroft thinks I ought to get a new therapist, and you'd probably enumerate in exacting detail the reasons why."

"The thing is though, Sherlock, god…" John swallowed and continued staring fixedly at the name on the stone, "The thing is, I love you. And whether you can hear me or not, you should know that. God, I love you. And I miss you."

John wiped his eyes furiously on the sleeve of his jumper and when he spoke next his voice was little more than a whisper, "Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me before I could tell you?"

He reached out a hand toward the headstone and rested his fingers there for the moment, his mind returning briefly to that last chase and the warmth of Sherlock's living hand in his. The cold marble slab was a poor substitute, but it was all he had.

"Right, then, I'll be back soon." He turned away as if steeling himself against a sort of blow to the heart. He couldn't bear to ask for another miracle.

John was roused from his musings by the shrill whistle of the kettle. So much for accomplishing simple tasks and trying to not dwell on memories. He couldn't even make a simple cuppa without getting lost in his own damned thoughts.

It would be a year in two weeks. It had been the most difficult year of his life, and John couldn't quite allow himself to think of all the Sherlock-empty years that stretched before him.

As he added milk to his tea, John heard the door open.

"Mrs. Hudson," he called, "you needn't keep checking up on me. You left enough food here the day before last to feed a small army, let alone a small army captain." The truth of the matter was that despite her near constant refrain of "not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson had taken John's grief as a personal project of sorts (perhaps to distract her from her own?) and replied to every uneaten meal with ten more in its stead, as if, by sheer force of will, she could alleviate his depression, his mourning, and his lack of appetite. Honestly, John was not in the mood to deal with the negotiations on these subjects that her visits so often brought.

"Mrs. Hudson? I told you, I'm fi—" but the rest of his phrase caught in his throat. The tea cup in John's hands fell to the floor and shattered spraying his trousers with hot tea and shards of china. He was rather sure that his mind had finally broken as well. For, when he turned around to address his land lady, tea in hand, he did not see at a petite elderly woman. No, he was facing a tall, thin man with a shock of dark curls over a fair brow and piercing eyes, the likes of which he had seen only once before.


	2. Hallucinations Brought on by Grief

"Hello, John."

God, he thought he would never hear that voice again.

"Oh my god," John clutched the counter for support, he was sure he might faint. Had he fallen asleep? Was this yet another dream cooked up by his subconscious to torture him? "This cannot be happening. You're not real. You're dead."

There, perfectly rational statements, that was how you ought to react to imaginary resurrected flatmates who turn up in your kitchen. He was sure that he had read that in a book about dealing with grief once…

The figure in the doorway smirked. It was such a familiar expression that John had to grip even more tightly to keep from falling. It was the countenance that Sherlock wore when someone was clearly missing a crucial element to a problem (so about ninety-nine percent of the time).

"That would be quite true; however, your logic is based on the presupposition that I did, in fact, die." The (Figment? Ghost? Dream?) Sherlock strolled closer to John. "You kept the flat almost exactly the same." He remarked.

"I saw you die, Sherlock. I was there. I _watched_ you fall. I felt you pulse. I _buried _you. I _mourned_ you. Goddamn it. You don't bloody well get to show up in the kitchen a year later and make comments about-"

Apparently, John thought, even ghost Sherlocks couldn't help but interrupt.

"First, it has been three hundred and fifty one days," he arched his brow, "I have counted each one." The consulting detective cleared his throat and continued, "Second, you saw, but you did not observe, John…I wasn't dead, it just seemed that way. You believed what I needed you to believe. The grave is empty."

John's mouth dropped at this, whether from shock or outrage, he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was simply a fervent wish for this ghost to be real and a burgeoning terror that he wasn't. Sherlock walked closer until he was only an arm's length from John and he paused, as if sensing or deducing John's internal crisis and palpable shock. The two stared at one another. There was something glittering in Sherlock's eyes that John had seen only once, just before the fall…

"But how? Why?" John took a raged breath, "Do you have _any_ idea what it's been like without you? What I've gone through? What-" But John couldn't continue. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, he was shaking, and he choked on a strangled sob.

Sherlock's eyes darkened. They absorbed everything at once, taking in all elements of the doctor: the rumpled jumper and trousers, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the new lines and gauntness that defined his face. Sherlock's expression darkened with something like grief (John knew that expression well, he wore it himself almost every day) and he reached out his hand. The consulting detective let it hoover over John's cheek, as if he would brush away his tears. John could feel the heat from Sherlock's long pale fingers. He could smell that distinct Sherlock smell, one which he associated simultaneously with a racing heart, imminent explosions, home, and safety all at once. Sherlock seemed unsure, which was odd, Sherlock, the living Sherlock, had rarely, if ever, seemed unsure. But now, he hesitated; his hand millimeters from John's cheek, waiting for permission, for a sign that this was the right thing, that John wanted this. John could hear Sherlock breathe, could see the rise and fall of his chest, the pulse beat in the hollow of his long elegant throat. He had never wanted something so much as those damn violinist fingers on his skin. He had never, in his life, wished so fervently for anything as he wished for this moment to be real and not some sort of hallucination brought on by grief.

"I know, John," Sherlock said, his eyes glistening with emotion; there were tears there, and he took a step nearer. "I…I know you came to see me."

John stared. "Please, god, Sherlock, please don't do this to me." It was a plea, pure and simple and it came from the very bottom of his heart.

And then Sherlock did touch John, he brushed away his tears. The second that Sherlock's palm connected with John's face, it was like an electric charge went through his whole body. Because this was Sherlock's hand on his face, god, his real, warm, solid, flesh and blood hand, with a scar on the palm and tobacco stains on the fingers, and John clutched it for dear life.

This was Sherlock, really Sherlock, standing in the kitchen of 221B, breathing and speaking, and, of all things, crying as he stroked the contours of John's face and that was all it took for John to propel himself forward into the consulting detective's arms. He clutched at him for dear life, and pressed his nose into the front of Sherlock's button down shirt and his coat and just inhaled. After a split second of shock (perhaps he was waiting for a blow?) Sherlock held him just as fiercely. They were pressed flush against one another. Sherlock's hands clutched John's jumper and Sherlock's face buried in John's hair. John felt like his heart was going to explode out of his chest when Sherlock leaned down and planted a kiss at his temple, which sent a shiver through John.

"I have missed you, too, John," he whispered, and his voice was slightly strangled as well.

John chuckled wetly and pulled back just enough to look at Sherlock. Their faces were close together and John could see such emotion in Sherlock's eyes that it took his breath away. There was sadness there and joy and love and lust and regret and hope all at once. John wondered if he had ever seen anything so beautiful.

He reached up and brushed a stray tear away from Sherlock's cheek.

"You bloody idiot! I ought to punch you. You know that?" He said this with no real fervor, so enraptured by the fact that Sherlock was here, now, present, alive.

Sherlock chuckled weakly at that. "Perhaps, but you should kiss me first, my dear blogger." And he leaned down and pressed his mouth to John's. It was like something exploded inside him at that moment. This was a second chance. It was dreamlike, but he doubted that he could truly dream the reality, the imperfections that made this moment genuine: the way that Sherlock's stubble felt against his chin, or how their teeth clipped together in their eagerness to be as close as possible, or the raised scar under the hairline at the base of Sherlock's skull where John's fingers had become buried in the think dark curls, or how Sherlock tasted of tea and tobacco as they stumbled together.

"John…" Sherlock said when they had calmed enough to speak rationally again

"Yeah?" They had moved into the drawing room and John was staring at Sherlock as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. He couldn't stop touching him, as if afraid that a loss of physical contact would allow Sherlock to disappear. John clutched his hand and brushed his cheek and nuzzled his neck, and felt no shame in it the demonstrativeness for Sherlock was mirroring these actions, as if having John here and alive and well and wanting him was a similar miracle.

"I feel that it would be dishonest of me to not disclose the fact that I frequently overheard your "graveside" chats over the past eleven months." He looked vaguely uncomfortable.

"You stood by and spied on me?"

"John, please, I was, after all, the intended recipient of your comments" Sherlock's current face proved that supercilious eyebrows and a haughty demeanor could be retained, intact, post resurrection.

"Yeah, a dead you, Sherlock…I…"

"I just wanted to tell you, John, that I found what you said most touching, and" he cleared his throat, "I love you too."

John stared for a moment, struck dumb. And then he punched his bestfriend, flatmate, patner and love squarely on one of his rather well chiseled cheek bones.

"Ow!"

"You right, bloody, _idiot_!"

"I suppose that was deserved?"

"Nicely deduced, Sherlock."

"Right. Well, then. Thank you"

They stared at each other for a moment. Sherlock, John was pleased to say, looked slightly sheepish as he rubbed his face.

"I love you, Sherlock." The lanky detective seemed slightly shocked but pleased all the same "Don't ever, _ever_, do something, so damned idiotic again."

Sherlock smiled, "No, of course, not." He kissed John's forehead, as if to seal his promise, and then, finding this unsatisfactory took John's face in his hands and met his lips for a deeper signature.

There would be time, John thought, to talk tomorrow; time to discuss to the details of Moriarty's network and the goings on of Baker Street and Scotland Yard; time to alert Mrs. Hudson and convene with Mycroft (as if he didn't already know exactly what transpired at 221B); time to further discuss the exacting details of where Sherlock had been for the past year, and where they stood with one another. In this moment though, as John snuggled in closer to Sherlock, resting his head on his shoulder, he thought that he could never be more content. He felt emotionally exhausted. He couldn't tear his eyes from Sherlock but he couldn't quite manage to keep his eyes open either.

"Sherlock?" he mumbled.

"Yes, John?"

"Please, be here when I wake up, okay?"

With his eyes half closed and his face pillowed on Sherlock's chest he couldn't see the solemn expression the consulting detective wore.

"Always, John…always."

John fell asleep for the first time in months. With a smile on his face.

* * *

><p><em>AN<em>

_There you have it, chapter two. Sorry if the boys got a little out of character. This was originally meant to be a two shot, but I'm thinking of continuing the story and expanding on John and Sherlock's relationship after Sherlock's "resurrection." All is lovely and happy right now (partially because I think, at least, this wouldn't be the first time John has dreamt Sherlock came back and he's afraid to let himself really believe that Sherlock is back), but the lovely detective and doctor will have some issues to work out once John realizes that yes, Sherlock isn't dead and what does that mean about the past year and what will it mean for their continued relationship.  
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_Anyway, I would really truly appreciate any feedback on the story so far! If you review, I will respond. Lots of love to those of you have given me some feedback. :)_

_Until next time, keep believing in Sherlock. _


	3. Tea and Toast

John woke the next morning with a terrible crick in his neck. He was in the drawing room and, judging by his rumpled clothing and the trail of drool on his union jack pillow, he had fallen asleep on the sofa.

He sat up and rubbed his tired eyes with his hands trying to come more fully awake. What a night. He couldn't really remember falling asleep, but he had had such a good dream. Sherlock had come home to Baker Street, and John had finally told him how he felt. Miraculously, Sherlock had reciprocated.

This was not an unusual occurrence. John often dreamed of Sherlock, though his imaginings, however troubling or sweet, always seemed cruel when exposed to the harsh rays of the morning sun. It was so difficult to wake up and realize all over again that Sherlock was gone.

Last night's dream had been more vivid than most, that was certain, but, still, morning had come, and the flat was empty and silent once more.

John pulled himself to his feet and shuffled to the bathroom, studiously avoiding the mirror (he found the gaunt stranger that stared back at him these days to be slightly troubling). He got into the shower and stood beneath the spray of water letting it clear his mind and wash away his thoughts. At the same time though, he tried to remember the more wonderful moments of his dream: the way that Sherlock's mouth had felt against his and the way he had confessed his feel—

"Enough now, Watson," John scolded himself firmly, "pull yourself together."

John threw on a pair of jeans and then grabbed a jumper from the pile of wash that Mrs. Hudson had dropped off last week. It was his favorite: oatmeal colored, warm, and comfortable. John could use all the comfort he could get at this point. He was in the middle of finger combing his hair when he heard a resounding crash from the kitchen.

"What the bloody hell?" He muttered.

Since he had started living at 221B, John had learned to never underestimate a noise, which could indicate anything from an explosion, break in, or trained assassin to something much more innocuous, like a dropped coffee mug or body part. When Sherlock was alive, disturbances usually fell into the former category of "dangerous, proceed with caution." These days, it was far more likely that an unexpected sound was due to Mrs. Hudson acting the housekeeper, or, heaven help him, Mycroft coming by to check up on him. It didn't do to be too careful.

So it was that when John Watson burst into the kitchen, he had mentally prepared himself for just about any extremity…any, that is, except for the sight of Sherlock Holmes setting a second tea cup on the counter.

"Ah, John, you're awake." He said matter-of-factly, "I took the liberty of making breakfast. I know that you have a predilection for jam on your toast."

He turned around. Definitely Sherlock Holmes. John grabbed the nearest chair for support.

"Would you prefer strawberry or apricot?"

John's jaw dropped and he struggled to formulate anything remotely resembling a coherent sentence. Sherlock's brows narrowed and he shrugged.

"Strawberry it is then," he said as he turned back to the now boiling kettle.

John sank into the chair he had so desperately been clutching (which was for the best, the poor man's knees had all but given out, and he was shaking considerably). He continued to stare at Sherlock's back as he bustled about the kitchen preforming, of all things, domestic activities. _This __cannot__ be happening_, John thought.

"So…" John cleared his throat as Sherlock placed a plate of toast in front of him, "you're…you're really alive, then?"

Sherlock raised his brows, "Don't be dull, John. Of course I am. I believe we discussed this yesterday evening." He sat down opposite John and observed his faithful blogger above the rim of his teacup. "However, judging by your current facial expression, which can only be classified as 'shocked disbelief,' I must infer that you doubted the validity of my return. Perhaps because, on numerous occasions previous, you experienced fantasies about just such an occurrence, which were viciously unfulfilled and left you further mired in a state of depression and grief" Sherlock took a sip and concluded, "Until yesterday, of course."

"So, just so we're clear," John began in a would be calm voice, "Last night really happened. I mean when we talked about…"

"How we felt, John? Yes," Sherlock interrupted.

"And then we…" John continued with a slight blush creeping up his neck.

Sherlock smirked, "I believe the colloquial terminology is 'snogged.' And that is a splendid shade of red on you, John."

John groaned and buried his face in his hands. A muffled "oh, bloody hell" could be heard from between his fingers.

"John, you needn't make such a fuss. It was quite good, actually. It would have undoubtedly progressed still further to our mutual benefit and satisfaction," Sherlock plowed onward, somewhat sadistically, or so John thought, judging by the way that he pulled at his own hair without looking up from the table. "However, you chose instead to fall asleep. No doubt a result of the extreme emotional stress you've been under. Quite understandable, really." John groaned again, whether from frustration, disappointment, or incredulity was anyone's guess. Sherlock thought it was most likely a combination of all three.

"You are quite attractive when you sleep, John…You look much less…damaged," Sherlock's face darkened for a moment, perhaps recalling that he was partially responsible for the haunted look that so characterized John these days.

Sherlock cleared his throat, "That is, until you began to drool on my best purple shirt."

The consulting detective set down his tea cup in its saucer and paused. He chose not to reveal that a sleeping and innocent John had made his heart ache the night before. He didn't mention that he had soothed John in his sleep or that John's presence had prevented his own recurring nightmares. Sherlock certainly didn't disclose the fact that when he woke up spooned against John he had nearly cried with happiness. It would not do to say such things…yet.

John looked up. His eyes were red rimmed, and he seemed slightly deranged for a moment, though, when he spoke, his voice was steady. Suspiciously so, Sherlock observed.

"And now you're making breakfast." There was a strained tension in John's voice.

"Yes."

"Tea and toast with jam," John continued. Sherlock was mildly concerned that such an innocent and factual statement should be accompanied by white knuckled hands clutching the table. "I didn't know that you even knew how to make anything but a mess in the kitchen. Is that something that you've picked up recently?"

Sherlock sensed a trap but decided that the best course of action would be to continue onward with the conversation. Rationality would hopefully beget more rationality. John had been upset the night before but also happy.

"John, I am not completely incapable of feeding-"

"It must be a bloody useful skill to have when you're bloody running about faking your own damned death!" John had sprung to his feet breathing heavily.

Sherlock stared at him momentarily confused.

"John, you're upset."

"Oh, nicely deduced, Sherlock. Sodding brilliant, in fact. What gave it away!"

"Well it's quite obvious, John. Though, I was given to understand last night that you were particularly pleased with my return." Sherlock felt something uncomfortable stirring in the region of his heart. After a moment's observation, he realized that he was afraid.

"I thought you were a figment of my imagination, Sherlock! If I had realized that you were real…" He shouted and then suddenly sank back into his chair, as if all the wind had gone out of his sails.

Sherlock, whose anxiety was exponentially increasing by the second, stood up and walked over to John. He hesitated for a fraction of an instant before placing his hand on John's shoulder. John let out a strangled sob and pulled away.

"John, why are you upset?" Sherlock's voice was laced with concern.

"You're supposed to be the genius, Sherlock. You bloody tell me." John got up and stared at Sherlock with something akin to extreme hostility. _He is angry with me_ Sherlock realized and, after noticing the way that John was shaking, _He is angry and frightened_. Sherlock reached for John. He couldn't think, which was extraordinary. He couldn't even really marvel at this anomaly, so strong was his desire to pull John close to him and soothe away whatever was hurting him.

But John pulled back sharply and Sherlock flinched in response.

"I need some air." John said.

"John…" Sherlock began.

"You don't get it, do you?" John was frustrated beyond reason and Sherlock, for once, had no ready answer to his question.

"You left me alone for a year! Probably, no, scratch that, the single _worst_ year of my damned life. You do not get to traipse back here and have everything go back to the way it was before you _left me_." John was breathing heavily; Sherlock felt as if he'd been slapped, but the stricken expression on Sherlock's face was nothing compared to the amount of pain that was pouring out of John.

"John," Sherlock was so out of his element that in other circumstance John would have found it adorable, "I am so sor-"

"I know you're sorry, Sherlock, but that doesn't bleeding erase the last year. It doesn't make everything okay. _I_ am not okay. _This_ is _not_ okay!"

"John, I lov-" Sherlock began but John waved his hand with fervor and Sherlock was silenced, a complete first.

"Do not say that to me. Don't you dare. I don't know what you think love is, Sherlock, but it is not…it's not what this is." John couldn't even look at the expression on Sherlock's face. The consulting detective looked like someone had just punched him in the stomach. Part of John felt sorry whilst the other part took a strange sort of vengeful pleasure from Sherlock's pain. _Good, let him hurt, like he's hurt me._

"John, please," Sherlock begged tremulously, and Sherlock Holmes had never, in all of his life, in any of his adventures, begged anyone for anything, "John, please, let me explain?"

"I can't do this right now." John knew that he should listen. There was a tiny nugget of rationality; a little voice that told him to sit down and discuss things like an adult. The other, much louder and much larger, part of him encouraged him to stew in his anger and get the hell out of the flat before he really did punch Sherlock in the face or say something that he couldn't take back.

He turned around and stormed out the kitchen. A few moments later, Sherlock heard the door to 221B slam shut, and the consulting detective sank into a chair. He steepled his fingers and stared at the table, the uneaten toast, and the un-drunk tea and thought of what a terrible mess he had made of things.

_AN:_

_So here's Chapter 3, what do you think? We're back in angsty land. John and Sherlock have some serious issues to work through. I do hope that you guys are all enjoying the ride as they begin to reconstruct and redefine their relationship. I'd like to thank everyone that's reviewed, favorited, or followed this fic, you guys make my day. :-) __Feedback, comments, and suggestions_ _are all extremely welcome (and help encourage the writing muse) , so please share your thoughts. I should hopefully have the next chapter up by the end of the week. Coming soon: Sherlock ruminates on *emotions* John stews some more, and Mycroft should be making an appearance within the next chapter or two...  
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	4. Cry Me a River

It was a cold and damp day in London. A light rain was falling, and the storm grey clouds did nothing to improve John's mood as he marched along the crowded morning streets. Honestly, he wasn't really aware of his surroundings. He had no set destination in mind and there seemed to be a persistent angry buzzing in his brain through which occasional angry phrases (_bloody sodding idiot_, _goddamn that man_, _a fucking year he left me!_ _the bloody nerve of him_, and _thinks he knows every-bleeding-thing_ among them) surfaced with tenacity.

John shoved his hands into his pockets and kept walking at a furious pace. He bumped into several people, nearly knocking them over, and didn't even stop to apologize for the bruised elbows, disgruntled tourists, and spilt shopping bags he left in his wake.

He was breathing rather harshly and he could see the puffs of condensation in the air that preceded his steps. Physical activity was an outlet, for John. It was a way to bleed off the toxic energy he felt running through his veins and a productive alternative to hitting something (or someone, as the case may be, however much that consultin—person may have deserved it). Usually, walking helped him to clear his head. Usually. This was, however, apparently an extremely unusual circumstance because he felt absolutely no relief of his inner turmoil whatsoever.

_The nerve of that sodding __bastard__!_ John thought _He shows up after a year and then tries to __deduce __me! He can't even fucking comprehend why I'd be upset!_ John purposely trod down on the small voice that attempted to draw his attention to the events of the preceding evening, during which Sherlock had seemed more vulnerable and emotionally demonstrative than ever before.

_Who am I kidding?_ John's scowl deepened and his lips thinned into a hard line. Passersby began to give the stranger with such a dark countenance a wide berth. _This is the same man who couldn't imagine that a woman would think of her own child in the last moments of her life; the same person who became down right gleeful at the prospect of a serial murderer. The __wonderful __flat-mate who leaves toes in the freezer and calls me home across the bloody city to fetch a pen from his pocked! Sherlock bloody Holmes, the self-confessed sociopath, doesn't give a damn about anybody but himself._

_**But, John, **_another voice said _**don't you remember?**_Unbidden, the image of Sherlock the night they had encountered Moriarty for the first time came to the front of John's mind. He remembered the terrified expression that Sherlock wore when he saw his blogger wrapped up in explosive equipment, recalled the way that Sherlock fingers had shaken as he stripped the bombing off of John, and his positively wrecked countenance and palpable relief when John was out of danger again…

_That doesn't mean anything_. John countered himself, but he remembered, too, the way that Sherlock's last few moments (or supposed last few moments) on earth had been spent with John. How the consulting detective had cried on the phone as he said goodbye…_Yeah, before he disappeared for a year for no bloody reason! There __didn't have to be__ a goodbye. _

Rational John countered, _**I'm sure there's a perfectly good explanation, which you would find out if you would stop acting like a **__**child**__** and **__**talk**__**about it with him. Sherlock **__**never**__** does something without a good reason.**_

_Sodding, shut up! He __left me__. He left me __alone__!_

John stopped his relentless pacing and walked over to the nearest railing, which overlooked the river. He was taking deep breathes to try to prevent the sudden onslaught of tears, and only marginally succeeding. The crux of the matter, when you got right down to it, was that John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes with all of his (considerably large) heart. He would have done anything for him, would have gone through hell and back if necessary. And the truth was that John was terrified. He could not under any circumstances lose Sherlock again, but he didn't trust Sherlock not to leave.

All right, granted that Sherlock had made some grand and lofty proclamations the night before. John remembered them clearly. In fact, he felt his heart constrict within his chest just thinking of the depth of emotion that had been in Sherlock's eyes and face and hands. But Sherlock Holmes had also made some very serious mistakes. And the world's only consulting detective was nothing if not a consummate actor; he knew how to read people (especially John) and he also knew just exactly what he needed to do and say in order to get what he wanted…

_Okay, perhaps that wasn't entirely fair_, John thought. He did know that Sherlock loved him in his own strange, Sherlocky way, probably as much as Sherlock was capable of "love." But John, in that moment, was not really sure that Sherlock _was_ capable of loving someone. _And even if he did_, John thought tiredly, _would that be enough after all that's happened? _

He had worked himself into a state of self-pity, self-righteous anger, and unrequited love. A lethal cocktail of emotion bubbled up inside of him. He had, in fact, begun to sulk. John Watson, army doctor, adrenaline junkie, man of action, loyal friend, sometime consulting detective, and faithful blogger was standing in the rain, staring at a river, with tear stains on his face, and numb fingers from the cold…sulking.

And to be quite honest, he stayed that way for a while, completely oblivious to external conditions as he bemoaned the internal emotional mess that had become his life.

After another minute or two (or ten), he looked up with a determined set to his jaw and a blazing look on his face.

"Sod this." He said. For he was John Watson, damn it, and, if there was one thing to be said about John Watson, it was that he never took things lying down. He was not passive, he was not a push over, and he did not run away from a fight if he could help it. That was exactly what he had done this morning. Understandably perhaps, but he had nevertheless retreated when he should have confronted Sherlock. He had turned around and walked away when he should have sat down and discussed the situation. No explanation could make up for the past year. None. There was very little chance that things could go back to the way that they had been before, too much had changed, there had been too much hurt. However, now that the anger had dissipated and the sane little voice in the back of John's brain had reasserted itself, he realized that his evasive sulking phase was far more suited to a certain newly "resurrected" flat-mate than it was to him. He was supposed to be the mature one in this partnership. Even if Sherlock's explanation wouldn't change things, didn't John still need to hear it? If only to try to understand what the hell had happened.

John wiped eyes, straightened his spine, and spun around, resolved to return to Baker Street and have it out with Sherlock. Unfortunately, it was at this decisive juncture that he noticed a shining black car parked at the curb about ten meters distant. He felt a strong sense of foreboding as the rear door opened and a voice from within said, "Good afternoon, Doctor Watson." This was just not his day.

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><p><em>AN: Thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed this story so far! It really means the world to me. <em>_I do hope that John was believable in this chapter and that his chat with himself made sense. We'll be visiting with our favorite consulting detective again quite soon...;-) _

_In other news, I sat down today and plotted out the remaining chapters of this fic as well as plans for several out-takes, one-shots, and future multi-chapter works to come. Basically there are currently a multitude of plot bunny themed post-its all over my desk. I would love to get your feedback on this story, on John and Sherlock, and any requests or suggestions you might have! More plot-bunny post-its are always welcome. :-) And it would be awesome to know what everyone thinks of this story so far. I hope that you're enjoying the reading as much as I am enjoying the writing, and if you comment/review, I promise to reply!_

_Until next time!_

_-Nic_


	5. Turning in Circles

John had left four hours ago. Four hours and thirty six minutes, to be precise. Four hours, thirty six minutes, and twenty-three seconds, twenty-four, twenty-five…"Damn it!"

Sherlock Holmes had spent the past four hours, thirty-six minutes and several seconds, restlessly prowling 221B, when he wasn't tearing it apart. John had once described Sherlock without a case as "a tiger with a tooth ache and way too much ingenuity." It is worth noting that a Sherlock without a case would be considered a most amiable person, possessed of a sunny and benevolent disposition, when compared to a Sherlock without his John.

When John left, Sherlock had deduced from his pace, gait, stomp, facial expression and the exact force of the door slam that his flat-mate did not want to be followed. So, Sherlock remained seated at the table, forcibly resisting the urge to tackle John, drag him back into the kitchen, and make him listen to reason. The probability of that course of action resulting in long-term relationship damage was incredibly high. _No_, Sherlock had reasoned, _a far more profitable course of action would be to let the good doctor "blow off steam."_

Though Sherlock's resolve had initially held fast, he became increasingly agitated as time progressed. By the half-hour mark, Sherlock had risen from the table and begun a sort of manic exploration (read: demolition) of the flat. A meticulous room-by-room search had led him to deduce that John had kept all of his possessions completely intact (barring Sherlock's best scarf, which was tucked securely, with additional tearstains and residual snot, beneath John's pillow).

As Sherlock's anxiety grew, his mind went in a myriad of directions, and he followed each one to its painful conclusion. What if John was hurt? What if he didn't come home _at all_? What if he regretted the things that he had said the previous evening? What if John had only expressed his feelings because he had thought Sherlock dead or a figment of his imagination? Had the kissing been inappropriate? Had Sherlock done something wrong? The detective growled and tugged at his unruly curls, which were becoming increasingly tangled. He wished for a moment that he could simply stop thinking.

Emotions were messy. They were illogical and uncomfortable and Sherlock's life had been far simpler without them. Now they were everywhere, all the time, and as far as John was concerned…well, Sherlock sometimes believed that he felt too much.

To counter all the _feelings_, Sherlock had slapped on five nicotine patches. He puzzled through the case files lying dormant on the desk. He had thrown every available (and especially heavy) book from the shelves, unearthing, as he did so, three separate surveillance cameras, no doubt, courtesy of his big brother. As each one landed with a deafening thump, all he heard was John's name in the resounding crash. Sherlock twirled around the room and stomped across the furniture, muttering to himself incoherently as he went. He played a violently fast paced violin concerto, which he composed on the spot. He followed this by texting Mycroft (Lost him already, have we, brother dear?-MH) and Lestrade (He just needs some space, mate.-GL). Shouted a string of truly dreadful obscenities (in seven languages), which caused Mrs. Hudson to come upstairs. Their abrupt exchange went something to the effect of: "John, dear, are you all right? I heard a dreadful racket…Sherlock, oh my! What are you—" "Yes, yes, Mrs. Hudson. I'm perfectly fine. Now _do_ shut up!" And he slammed the door in his startled land lady's face. As she walked away, he was sure that he heard her, tearfully mumble "It just wasn't the same without him here," which caused Sherlock to clutch at his hair and turn in a fruitless circle, yet again.

This could have continued for some time, resulting in irreparable damage to the flat (it was only a lucky coincidence that John had changed the location of his hand gun or there would have been several additional holes in the wall). But, as always, Sherlock's high energy period was abruptly followed by quietude. He stopped pacing, looked about him at the flat, surveyed with detached interest the complete mess that he had made, thought, _John will not be pleased_, and sat down in John's chair. He pulled John's pillow, which was soft, well worn, and smelled of John, to his chest and thought.

He had to admit that John's reaction, though not ideal, was also not unexpected. Sherlock had watched John grieve, when he wasn't otherwise engaged with bringing down Moriarty's organization. When he couldn't keep a watch on John himself, he had had frequent updates from Mycroft and Lestrade. His contact with John over the past year had been highly unsatisfactory. He was forced by the circumstances of his "death" to hoover out of sight and reach. Standing by and watching John, strong, steady, loyal, lovely, John, fall completely apart had been a constant source of pain for Sherlock. There had been several moments, especially during John's graveside "confessionals," in which Sherlock had barely restrained himself from jumping out from behind his cover or beneath his disguise. It had been agonizing to watch and listen to John's pleas and endearments.

He knew that John had been depressed, listless, and angry. These concepts would have been easier to process in an objective way had Sherlock not been so inextricably and damnably attached. As it was, Sherlock couldn't be objective with John, not anymore (if he had ever been capable of such objectivity, it was a hazy memory now). He had chosen to "die" rather than let John go to a more permanent end. A world without John in it, well, Sherlock did not want to imagine such a thing, which of course hadn't stopped him from dreaming and thinking about it nearly incessantly since he left. This was undoubtedly one of the reasons that he had persistently come around: to make sure that John was all right and to remind himself why he was continuing his dangerous task.

He was meant to stage his death and disappear. That had been his brilliantly fashioned plan. Stay hidden beneath false identities and only emerge again once Moriarty's web had been completely unraveled and all of the danger had passed. That would have been the _intelligent_ decision, the _objective_ decision. Sherlock grimaced with self-disgust. He hadn't been able to do it, you see. He _couldn't_ stay away from John. He had come back at least once a fortnight to see his blogger. Sherlock had stood across from Baker Street one night in the rain watching the lights flicker in the windows. Another afternoon, disguised as a biker, he had nearly run John down as the doctor walked to the surgery and smiled to himself as heard the string of curses he left in his wake. Sherlock had stood behind a display in Tesco's while John bought milk; posed as a dog walker, while John sat on a park bench staring listlessly into space; and, of course, he had been in the graveyard multiple times. Once or twice Sherlock simply stood, just out of sight and on other occasions he had posed as a caretaker, as was the case when John had made his most heart-felt confession.

Sherlock had ensured that John Watson would be watched closely without realizing it for months. Though he had wanted to give him a sign or warning, Sherlock knew that any evidence of his continued existence would mean the end of John's. He had made the correct choice, however painful it had been for the both of them…

Ah, and there it was. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, deplorable flat-mate, brilliant mind, self-diagnosed sociopath, loved John Hamish Watson. Loved everything about him. Horded every detail and worried about him, _constantly_. Donovan and Anderson and all the rest of the dull idiots of the world who said that Sherlock had no heart were acting completely in character: that is, they saw without observing. Moriarty had been right, John was Sherlock's heart. And he had made Sherlock, for better or for worse, more human. Sherlock could not lose his best and only friend, but he hadn't the faintest idea what to do to "win" John back. It simply wasn't his area.

Sherlock's understanding of human interactions was limited. Relationships were observed rather than experienced. Now that he was home again (home being a word that, for Sherlock, meant nothing more or less than the person of John Watson himself), he had absolutely no idea how to proceed. He knew that he would do whatever was necessary to make things up to John. He would go down on his knees and plead if necessary (however, unpleasant that seemed). He wanted John in every way that it was possible for one person to want another. Yet even as he felt this overwhelming love welling up within him, Sherlock was conscious of a burgeoning fear. John's face as he had left the flat, a look, which Sherlock classified as "betrayed," did not bode well. It was in this moment that Sherlock realized that it was entirely possible, even probable, that in saving John's life, he had destroyed any sort of relationship with him. Sherlock, who did not believe in higher powers or deities ("dull useless tropes for weak irrational minds") of any kind buried his face in his hands and, let out a prayer that this was not the case. It was in this attitude exactly that Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade found Sherlock when he came by the flat two hours later.

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><p><em>AN<em>

_And there we have Chapter 5! Writing with Sherlock is a very intimidating experience. I feel like he's hoovering around my desk making snarky comments and scathing criticisms ("Don't be dull! I would never say that! No, no, can't you see that it would be better if..." and then when I counter, I imagine him flouncing away in a huff "Bored!"). John is way nicer. And I have been spending a LOT of time with fictional characters. The point is that ANY feedback on how the detective comes across in this chapter would be most welcome. :-) I'm hoping to have chapter six up by tomorrow night, but it's more likely to be Friday. Please, leave me a review and make me smile. All feedback is welcome! :-)_


	6. Not Quite Impervious

John tried to stifle a groan, steeling himself, as he got into the car to face his second least favorite person in the world.

"Hello, Mycroft," he said as he shut the door and they pulled away into traffic.

The elder Holmes brother surveyed the former-army doctor with a disdainful smile as he slowly twirled his ever present umbrella.

"I must confess. I'm a bit _surprised _to see you gallivanting about London on such a ghastly day."

"Yeah, you might actually have a reason to use the damn umbrella." John quipped. "Why do you carry that around, again?"

Mycroft scowled and John smiled. Annoying "the British government" had become something of a source of comfort and coping for John. Not to mention, that sometimes, it was just too damn easy.

"That isn't the issue, Dr. Watson, do _try_ to keep up." Sherlock hated being compared to Mycroft under any circumstances and their deeply entrenched sibling rivalry extended to nearly every aspect of their lives. Sometimes, though, John found it very difficult not to see some of Sherlock's mannerisms reflected in Mycroft. The currently disappointed tone of someone descending from a higher plane of existence to converse with mere mortals cursed with sub-par mental faculties was one that John had seen on Sherlock's face more than once. It was one of many reasons that John so often heard "punch me in the face" as a conversational subtext.

"So what is the issue then? You didn't just pick me up off the street to keep me from walking in the rain. We both know that you aren't here to enjoy the pleasure of my company. Let's have it." John had learned over the past year, during which time he had had more contact with the elder Holmes than he had wanted, that it was best to deal with whatever Mycroft had to say straight on and then be on his way.

"Well, doctor," Mycroft began, surveying John with a lofty expression, "I would have thought it obvious. I am here about my brother." John's eyes popped a bit, but before he could comment, Mycroft continued.

"Don't be dull, Dr. Watson, of course I know his whereabouts and yours," the elder Holmes stared at John, "I make it my business to know."

John did not doubt that one bit, however uncomfortable the notion was. The more pressing question was how-

"How did I know that he was alive?" John thought that it would be nice, lovely even, to live in a world where people let him finish his sentences, or even his thoughts before they replied.

"Yes."

"Well, I would have thought it obvious, doctor, I've known the whole time."

John was torn between incredulity and resignation. He sat still for a moment, licked his lips, opened his mouth, snapped it shut, and opened it again.

"So this whole time…you, you _knew_ that Sherlock was alive, yeah?"

"Well of course," Mycroft continued as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Who do you think helped him to disappear?"

John heard a faint buzzing in his ears and his vision went black for a second. He thought he was going to pass out. Really, considering the amount of sheer emotional trauma he had experienced in the past few days it was practically a medical miracle that he had not fainted, had a heart attack, aneurism, or stroke by now.

"Sorry, what?" John asked when the haze cleared.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"I helped Sherlock to fake his death. Did you really think that my brother would go to face Moriarty without a contingency plan?"

John didn't say anything. He glared. The hostility radiating from his person was tangible. Mycroft, however, seemed impervious to the blogger's hostility and continued blithely.

"I must confess to some disappointment, John." Mycroft smirked, "I could hardly countenance my brother being _smitten_ with someone this dense." His nose crinkled distastefully as it often did when he referred to subjects of an emotional nature. John would have found it comical if not for the serious tone of the conversation.

"Well, haven't you any questions about my brother's miraculous return from the dead? Come, now, Dr. Watson, you know you're just _dying_ to know." Mycroft examined his perfectly manicured nails and waited for John to cave.

Perhaps it was Mycroft's use "death" that finally goaded John into speech.

"You bloody Holmes' think you know everything," Mycroft smiled enigmatically and John's scowl deepened. He reluctantly had to admit that he was well beyond curious at this point. He had left before Sherlock could explain anything that morning, and, though he conceded that it was most definitely Sherlock who should be giving him these explanations, Mycroft was offering and John needed to know. "All right. Fine. How did he do it?"

Mycroft looked like a cat that had its cream and enjoyed it immensely. It made John feel like he'd walked right into a well laid trap. _Well, _he supposed, _so be it, let's just get this travesty over with_.

"My brother contacted me almost immediately after Moriarty's release."

John stared disbelievingly. Sherlock contacted Mycroft only in situations of direst need and, even then, only under duress, which typically involved John repeatedly needling him for hours. The idea that he had willing sought out Mycroft with no intercession was startling and pointed to the extreme nature of the circumstances.

"Did he?"

"Indeed," Mycroft continued, spinning his umbrella gently as the car drove on, rain pattering against the windows.

"I was quite as surprised as you. My dearest brother does not often, ah, seek me out for mere trivialities, as you well know."

John nodded tightly.

"Quite. Well, Sherlock seemed reasonably agitated and genuinely concerned about the resultant situation." He looked directly into John's eyes, "He seemed particularly concerned about how _you_ would be affected by these circumstances." John heard his heart pounding in his ears and felt light-headed. He tried to maintain eye contact, though he did swallow rather loudly. Mycroft seemed amused by his reaction but continued without commenting.

"Sherlock, as I am sure you are aware, is possessed of an uncanny intelligence and also incredible powers of deduction." John snorted and Mycroft chose to ignore his undignified response.

"We orchestrated his death with some help from his homeless network, and that young lady from the mortuary. It was a magic trick, Dr. Watson, a slight of hand, a simple matter of replacing bodies and convincing people of a certain version of events. No more, no less, though it was well coordinated, you must admit."

John stared stunned. "So when I came to question you—about Moriarty, when I came to question you, you already knew about this? You were already in on it?"

"The plans were certainly in place by that point, yes," Mycroft allowed, "of course, we had hoped that circumstances would not progress to such an _extreme_."

The two men glared at each other. John broke the silence first.

"So what happened…_after_?"

"Oh? Sherlock came to stay with me for a day or two," Mycroft's expression darkened for a moment, "My brother was not (how shall we say?) a _pleasant_ houseguest."

In response to John's inquisitive glance, Mycroft continued, "He was quite beside himself. Concerned for you, of course."

John was mildly shocked. The closest he had ever seen Sherlock to being "beside himself" was during their trip to Baskerville and that had been-

"Oh, he was much worse than that," Mycroft smiled.

"How is it that the two of you seem incapable of not interuptin-?"

"You hadn't said anything, Dr. Watson."

"You know exactly what I meant, Mycroft," John scolded moodily.

Mycroft arched his brows, "Attribute it to a family characteristic then, Dr. Watson."

"So, he's been with you, then, this whole time?"

Mycroft chuckled mysteriously, "Hardly."

"My dear brother has spent the majority of his time for the past eleven months tracking down and destroying the remaining cells of Moriarty's crime organization. He wanted to make sure of your safety, you see…Or perhaps you don't…" At the blank look on John's face, Mycroft sighed.

"James Moriarty threatened your life. Didn't you know? Unless Sherlock killed himself, or appeared to, trained assassins were given strict instructions to murder you, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson."

John's jaw dropped. So this whole charade had been conducted for the sole purpose of saving his life?

"Yes, indeed," Mycroft smiled tightly, "Though, it seemed to be your wellbeing that most preoccupied my brother. He was meant to completely vanish, but couldn't quite manage it. I was given the _strictest_ instructions to monitor your whereabouts, as was the good inspector. Sherlock himself came back more frequently than was necessary, given the nature of his task."

Mycroft appeared slightly disgruntled. John looked confused and Mycroft replied before he could voice his question.

"He loves you, you see." John groaned; he couldn't believe that he was having this conversation with _Mycroft_of all people.

"I keep telling him that caring is a disadvantage," Mycroft scowled, "but he never did listen to my wisdom, even when we were boys. Now he calls me a hypocrite."

John let out a startled guffaw, but pulled himself back together when faced with Mycroft's displeasure.

"That is neither here nor there. I invited—"

"Abduction from the side of the road hardly counts as an invitation, Mycroft."

"As I say, I _invited_ you here to make you aware of the situation," Mycroft seemed slightly less poised than usual and certainly more candid, "My brother did what he did out of _love_, primarily the strong feelings that he has for you." John didn't really know what to say to that, and Mycroft took advantage of his silence to plow onward.

"You should further be aware that Sherlock has not had an _agreeable_ year."

"What do you mean?" John was all alertness and concern.

"I _mean_ that you are not the only person in this 'relationship' that has suffered from its abrupt and painful dissolution, which was, I might add, for a greater purpose. My brother has frequently been beside himself," Mycroft paused, "It is a wonder that he did not return to previous _undesirable_ habits."

John looked stricken. He had to admit that he had not really considered what Sherlock must have gone through during the past year. He had been so focused on his own experience of grief and betrayal to give Sherlock's emotional state any serious consideration. It seemed a strange thing to consider: Sherlock's emotions. Had Sherlock suffered just as much, if not more than John? What would it have been like, John wondered, to know that Sherlock was alive but be unable to speak with him or touch him? John had had a grave to mourn and a death to move on from, which he had clearly been incapable of doing. Sherlock had had many moments of seeing, but being just beyond the range of sight, knowing that John was alive, but powerless to be with him. _At least he could hope. I had nothing but—_John cut off his thought before he could continue too far down that road; he didn't want to turn this into a contest of who had suffered more. Right now, the fact was that Sherlock had a reason for what he did, and that reason was, according to Mycroft anyway, well…_This doesn't excuse him for what he did_, John thought.

He looked at Mycroft, who seemed far too pleased with himself.

"I need to talk to Sherlock…we, the two of us, that is, he and I, we have some things to discuss."

"As you should," Mycroft smiled, "and the timing of your realization is most apt."

The car pulled to a stop and John looked questioningly at Mycroft.

"My brother is just upstairs. I believe you'll find him in considerable emotional distress with the kind Detective Inspector, who, I am sure will be quite pleased to turn over his care taking duties to you." Mycroft smiled and stepped out of the car with John, opening his umbrella as he did so. It wouldn't do to have his immaculate suit sullied by precipitation.

"Thank you for the conversation, John, I hope that it was mutually beneficial."

"I feel like I could punch you for keeping this a secret," John stated without any real heat behind the words, then he admitted, somewhat sheepishly, "but I also feel like I should thank you for keeping him safe."

"Well, now I leave him in your capable hands, doctor," Mycroft smiled tightly. John nodded and walked to the door.

"Oh, John?" The doctor paused and looked back at the most powerful man in the British government, who, when it came right down to it, was a concerned older brother with his younger sibling's best intentions at heart. John was startled to think of Mycroft as possessing a heart, but today was one for surprises he supposed.

"Do tell Gregory to come down. We have an appointment in a quarter of an hour."

John nodded and stepped inside Baker Street. _Hypocrite indeed_, he thought. He and Lestrade should consider starting a support group for the unfortunate souls who found themselves wrapped up the lives of the Holmes brothers. That would have to wait though, right now, he had a very important meeting with a consulting detective…

* * *

><p>Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay in updating! I actually finished this chapter yesterday, and I tried to post it last night, but had some serious technical difficulties.<p>

Anyway...there we have Chapter 6. I started this story a week ago and I am so deeply immersed that it's kind of amazing. How did I ever live without writing these wonderful characters! What did you think of this chapter? Did you enjoy the John/Mycroft dynamic? Was Mycroft believable? I have to admit that writing him was actually quite fun, mostly because I just kept picturing the lovely Mark Gatiss' voice, facial expressions, and mannerisms. :)

As a side-note, I do not have any really strong theoretical inclinations when it comes to the great "How did Sherlock survive?" debate (mostly because last series' epic cliffhanger was solved by the Bee Gees). For the purposes of this story though, Mycroft was in on it and he and Sherlock worked together to stage the fall. The details are hazy on purpose so that you can believe whatever exact course of events you'd like.

I just want to take a moment to say, THANK YOU, to everyone who has read, followed, and reviewed this story! You guys make me smile on a daily basis. I really appreciate the support and encouragement. You make writing a complete pleasure. As always, any feedback would be greatly appreciated! So if you can take the time to leave a review! Next chapter will be up by tomorrow! :D


	7. Desperate Investigative Strategies

Lestrade stood in the doorway and absorbed both the completely damaged flat, which looked vaguely like a war zone, and the unmoving consulting detective sitting at the heart of it in an attitude, which, if he didn't know any better, would appear to be prostration.

_Poor sod_, he thought.

"Do shut up, Lestrade," droned the deep and slightly muffled voice of Sherlock Holmes.

"Haven't said a word, mate," Greg returned.

"You were—"

"Thinking, yeah, I know," Greg rolled his eyes and approached the detective who still hadn't shifted his position. His face was buried in his hands, thin pale fingers tangled in a mop of dark curls. The debris from all of his earlier activates surrounded him, destruction and damage radiating out from a volatile core.

"It's annoying."

"Can't be helped."

"Oh, I don't know, inspector," Sherlock countered, looking up, "you do a fairly good job of pretending otherwise on a regular basis."

_He looks wrecked_, Lestrade thought sadly. His observation was, for once, quite astute. Sherlock appeared simultaneously exhausted and demented. His hair was a holy terror. His usually immaculate clothing was rumpled, his eyes blood-shot, and there were tear tracks on his face, which Sherlock hastily wiped away.

"What can I do for you, Lestrade?" Sherlock spoke brusquely, "Have you a case for me?"

"Wha—" Lestrade began confusedly.

"Don't be _dull_, inspector," Sherlock retorted disdainfully, "Why else would you be here mid-afternoon on a Tuesday if not to present me with a case?"

Now Greg looked at Sherlock with pity, which did nothing to placate the consulting detective.

"Sherlock…" Lestrade intoned in what he hoped was a pacifying voice, as he walked over and perched on the edge of the sofa.

"Don't," Sherlock said sharply, springing to his feet and turning his back on the silver haired DI.

"Come on now, Sherlock," Lestrade had mentally prepared for Sherlock's best impression of an obstinate five year old and fully committed himself to remaining calm and reasonable.

"Mycroft sent you here, didn't he?" Sherlock's tone was accusatory, but he didn't turn around.

Lestrade sighed, "Mycroft asked me to come, yeah," he admitted. Sherlock snorted contemptuously. "But that's not the only reason I'm here, Sherlock, and you know it."

Sherlock tilted his head, but that was his only concession towards acknowledging Lestrade's statement or continued presence. He otherwise remained perfectly still, staring out the window at the darkened afternoon.

"Sherlock," Lestrade tried again, "I worry about you too, you know…"

Still no response. Lestrade was unsure if that meant that Sherlock was steadfastly ignoring him or if he was merely unwilling to concede that he was listening intently. Lestrade hoped for the latter.

"Look, I know you're upset about John." _Well that's one way to illicit a response_, Lestrade thought, as Sherlock spun about and walked over to him with alacrity.

"I am _not_ upset. There is _nothing_ wrong with me." Sherlock's vehemence was belied by his wild eyes, shaking hands, and generally grief-stricken demeanor. He looked like a man in the throws a vicious internal battle, coming unglued at the seams. In another time, Lestrade would have been evaluating his sobriety.

"For someone's who's so bloody good at deducing other people, you're bullocks at self-evaluation."

Sherlock just stared.

"Now sit down," and Greg literally pushed a surprisingly unresisting Sherlock into a chair, "I am going to make us a cuppa and then _we_," he gestured between the two of them to make sure that his point was clear, "are gonna have a little talk." Still no response. Lestrade sighed, hoping that Sherlock hadn't gone into a state of catatonia (he was certainly doing a fair impression of it). He decided (optimistic to the point of insanity) to take the lack of protest as a positive sign. He went to the kitchen where the remains of an uneaten breakfast were still spread across the table and he returned moments later with two steaming cups of Earl Grey. He forcibly placed one of them in Sherlock's hands and kept the other as he sat across from the younger man and considered the best way to approach this conversation.

"All right, mate, now, what's going on?" He commenced cautiously, trying to keep his tone natural. Sherlock seemed skittish and unbalanced. It was understandable, really. Greg had known Sherlock for years, and, during that time, the eccentric young man had wormed his way into Greg's heart. He worried about the bugger, and not just because of his relationship with Mycroft, which, well, he owed that to Sherlock in his own way (but that was a story for another day…). No, Greg had a very serious personal stake in the wellbeing of a certain consulting detective, and he knew that Sherlock had a lot going on that he didn't quite know how to process. The boy (and Greg still thought of him that way sometimes, old habits and all that) had a brilliant mind and a good heart (somewhere deep _deep _down inside, and especially for the few people he actually _cared _about and Greg was lucky enough, or unlucky enough depending on your perspective, to be one of that selected number), but he had focused almost all of his energies on the development of the former and very little on the latter. The result being that Sherlock could tell you everything worth knowing about a man in a matter of moments, but he had a far more difficult time handling or comprehending any type of feelings.

Sherlock continued staring into space and Greg sighed. He took a sip of his tea and pressed onward hoping that Sherlock hadn't vanished into his mind palace and was still present in the room.

"Look, Sherlock, you can talk to me, come on now," he was being gentle, as if Sherlock were a wary animal or a potential flight risk, "I've some experience in this area, all right?" Sherlock shifted his attention from an indeterminate point on the wall to Lestrade's face, and the DI hoped to god that Sherlock wasn't going to bring up his divorce or his relationship with Mycroft. That would be a true test of his patience. _No_, he reminded himself, _you're here to help him, come on, you can do this._

Maybe Sherlock really could hear him thinking because though the younger Holmes' brows contracted, he looked down at his tea instead of making any hurtful commentary.

"John left," he said as if remarking on the 95th type of tobacco ash. "This morning," he added for clarification.

"Yeah, so I gathered from the texts," Lestrade countered, "Why did he leave? What happened?"

"I don't know," the words came out between gritted teeth as quickly as possible, Sherlock hated to be in the dark about anything. Part of Lestrade wanted to catalogue this moment for future reference, but it seemed a bit inappropriate.

"I made him toast. And, yes, Lestrade, I know how to cook," Sherlock rolled his eyes and Greg held up a hand in a gesture of peace, "I thought that he would be pleased. He was not. He became increasingly agitated and left."

"I'm sure that John was upset," Greg said.

"Clearly," Sherlock drawled.

"Right, well, have you considered why?"

Sherlock made a face that said more clearly than words ever could that he thought Lestrade's mental capacities were on par with those of a slug. Having known the Holmes' for over six years, Greg was well acquainted with this expression, particularly after having lived with Mycroft…

"Of course."

"And what have you come up with?" Greg watched Sherlock intently.

"Despite his initially positive response, John seemed taken aback to realize that I was alive. Further, he seemed to be hurt by my "death" in a sustained way that has not been alleviated by my return."

"Good, mate," Greg said.

"However," Sherlock continued, "that doesn't completely explain his precipitous departure." The young consulting detective's voice drifted off.

"Lestrade," Sherlock seemed to be choosing his words carefully and speaking far more slowly than was normal, "much as it pains me to admit it, this is more your division than mine. Why is John upset?"

Lestrade considered Sherlock for a moment. The poor bloke must be distressed if he was willingly asking for an outside opinion. "Well, I'm not exactly an expert with this stuff, Sherlock. I—"

"Yes, yes" Sherlock was quick to interrupt, "regardless, consider it an investigative strategy."

Greg wasn't quite sure how to proceed, ultimately deciding that perhaps bluntness would be best: "John loves you."

This comment was met with silence and stillness.

"And, well, your death, it was, uh, hard on John," Sherlock still hadn't responded, which Greg interpreted as a sign to carry on, "and I'm sure that he's right happy that you're back…but, uh, it's probably a bit hard on the poor sod, too. Get what I'm saying?"

"No," Sherlock's voice was clinical, "If you love a person and that person is returned to you against all odds, the logical response would be gladness, surely. A reunion with the person that you care so deeply for should be a cause for joy." His face turned quizzical, as if he were working out a problem, "I felt that way when I was with John again."

Lestrade was blown away by Sherlock's final admission. He was usually so unwilling to acknowledge feeling any type of emotion or attachment. Such a straightforward disclosure was something that Greg understood to be a sign of desperation.

"I'm sure that he is happy that you're back, right?" Sherlock looked doubtful, "The thing is though that the two of you are in, er, different circumstances."

The younger man continued to look at Greg as if he were trying to work through the mystery that was the intricacy of human relationships. _If I had the answer to that…_Greg thought.

"John thought you were dead, right?"

Sherlock nodded, "Obviously."

"Right, well, that's it then, isn't it? Jesus, and you accuse me of being dense?" Greg was about a second away from throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. Sherlock looked affronted but was unwilling to comment, "John has been a bloody mess. Poor sodding idiot has been mourning you for a year. He was in poor shape. Now, turns out, surprise, that wasn't necessary," Sherlock made to interrupt and Lestrade forestalled his comment, "I know it was _necessary_, but it might not feel that way to him." Sherlock huffed indignantly.

"Well how would you feel if John had "died" and you'd spent a year grieving, only to have him show up in the flat?"

"As I said, I would be quite pleased," Sherlock said with a darkened face.

"Hmph. Well that's as may be. But I reckon that our Dr. Watson is feeling a bit hurt and angry with you." Sherlock's frown deepened.

"I know you had good intentions," Greg continued and he reached out and laid a hand on Sherlock's forearm, continuing gently, "John knows it too, but that doesn't change the fact that you let him believe a lie that caused him a lot of pain."

Sherlock was staring down at Greg's hand, but the DI didn't move it. Sherlock needed some human contact every now and again.

"I had a taste of that the first week after you died," Lestrade didn't like to remember the pain of the period in which he believed the young man that he had practically helped to raise had—he pulled himself back to the present.

"It hurt like hell. And when Mycroft told me what was going on, well, we were on the outs for a while," Sherlock nodded, he had noted the tension between the two.

"It's bound to have been more difficult for John." Sherlock didn't say anything and Lestrade squeezed his arm gently.

"I know you hurt too, Sherlock, I know it was difficult," Greg wondered whether anything he said was having an impact at all, or if he was completely bungling the whole thing; he wished there were a manual for this type of conversation. "But it was different for John, and he's gonna need some time."

Sherlock nodded and looked up at Lestrade. He seemed about to speak when they heard footsteps on the stairs and John Watson himself opened the door to the flat.

"Hello, John." Greg said with a sigh of relief.

"Greg, good to see you," John returned.

"Right, then," Lestrade got up and donned his coat, "I'm off out." Sherlock's entire attention had been focused on John from the moment he walked into the room and John seemed to be avoiding the piercing gaze. Lestrade breathed deeply.

"Mycroft said you're to come downstairs, he's waiting for you," John said.

"Right, we've an appointment," Lestrade rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "Take care, all right?"

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade and surprisingly rested his hand atop of the older man's for a moment, "Thank you…Greg." Lestrade smiled to here Sherlock use his given name.

"Anytime," he walked to the door, "Good to see you, John."

"And you."

Lestrade paused on the threshold and looked back at the intensely focused detective and the blogger who was beginning to return Sherlock's gaze with a determined face. He smiled to himself, "Now you boys behave yourselves, all right?" But neither John nor Sherlock seemed to be listening, and he left 221B with the hope that the two would be able to resolve their differences. He had his own Holmes to go home to.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Hi everyone! Welcome to Chapter VII. I hope that you enjoyed. How did you feel about Lestrade and Sherlock's heart to heart? In my head cannon Lestrade has a very fatherly/mentoring relationship with Sherlock and I hope that comes across here. I have a couple of ideas of how that developed (Lestrade references it briefly in this chapter), and I'm planning to explore that out in another fic__. Mycroft and Lestrade are both really invested in the boys of Baker Street, that's for sure. I'm glad they were willing to come in and help me out with talking some sense into Sherlock and John. _

_But they are finally in the same room again! Yay! Now the time has come to talk things out (I've already started the next chapter and let me just say that Sherlock and John are two of the most stubborn people in the world, seriously)._

_As always THANK YOU to everyone who has read, followed, and especially reviewed this fic. You seriously make my day and I am so happy to have you along on this ride with me. :-D Please, take the time to write a review and let me know what you think of this chapter and the story in general, or if you have any requests/suggestions for future projects! _

_Look for the next chapter tomorrow! :-D_


	8. Overdue Conversations

Lestrade closed the door behind him, leaving Sherlock and John alone. Sherlock was still seated on the sofa, staring intently at his blogger. John remained standing in the entryway with a set jaw, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. A deafening silence ensued.

John scuffed his toe and clenched his fists before looking up at Sherlock. It was still rather amazing to see him sitting there as if no time had passed, except, of course, that it had. John noticed, like Lestrade had before him, that Sherlock seemed a complete mess. He had clearly been upset by John's departure and absence. John knew that he couldn't look much better himself, and he rubbed the back of his neck as he glanced at what used to be the sitting room.

"What'd you do to the flat?" he asked to break the silence, as he took off his coat and tossed it over the back of the nearest chair. Sherlock followed John with his eyes, as the blogger sat down across from him.

"Oh, you know, John. I was bored," Sherlock returned with a small strained smile; "sitting about the flat all day is so _tedious_."

John cocked an eyebrow suspiciously; Sherlock couldn't fool him. The doctor had learned a trick or two about deduction and the state of Sherlock's face and clothing, not to mention the complete wreckage of almost every material possession in 221B, pointed to something more than just boredom having been responsible for the carnage.

"So you took it out on the sitting room?"

"Well, I would have taken it out on the wall, but your handgun seems to have mysteriously disappeared."

John didn't reply. If Mycroft and Lestrade hadn't told him that particular tale, he didn't feel inclined to enlighten the detective at the moment.

"Well thank goodness for that, then."

"Indeed."

Sherlock was still staring at him, and John leaned forward with his hands clasped. He wasn't quite sure what he wanted to say when he opened his mouth, but Sherlock beat him to it anyway. The consulting detective inclined his head speculatively to one side and said, "I take it you spent the afternoon with my dear brother."

Did he detect a hint of jealousy? John wondered, chuckling to himself. "Well, I went for a walk but then Mycroft, er, um, met me for a bit."

"By which, of course, you mean that he didn't give you a choice in the matter."

"Well that doesn't seem to be something the two of you do." John said without thinking and Sherlock looked troubled.

"It would seem not," he conceded.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did, John," Sherlock's tone was wry; "I've just had a most _enlightening_ conversation with Lestrade about this very subject."

"Oh?" John seemed puzzled.

Sherlock simply continued to stare at John over his steepled fingertips, "Did you enjoy your chat with Mycroft."

"Ha, do I ever?" John rejoined. Sherlock raised his brows and John continued more seriously, "He told me some things…about you."

"How kind of him."

"He told me what you did. Or, er, ah, rather, _why_ you did it."

"Did he?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You are clearly returned after you conversation with Mycroft. I'm inclined to believe by the fact that you are sitting here attempting to speak rationally, that you have decided not to leave, so the information revealed must have had a least a mildly positive impact."

Sherlock stopped mid-analysis. He seemed to be facing some sort of internal crisis. He smiled tightly, the type of smile that didn't reach his eyes. John didn't like the look one bit, particularly when it was directed at him.

"I am making an effort to allow you some input in our conversation," He grimaced slightly, "I am told that having the power to make decisions is an important element in inter-personal relationships."

John screwed up his face in a combination of exasperation and amazement, "_Lestrade_ told you that?"

Sherlock's expression clearly implied "_Don't be dull, John_" but his mouth said, "Not in so many words, no, but I believe that was the general theme."

"Right," John said dubiously. He shook himself a bit then returned to topic, since Sherlock seemed to be waiting for him to continue.

"Why did you do it?" he asked quietly after a moment's pause.

Sherlock seemed confused, "Mycroft must have told you, surely."

"He did," John said, and he looked sad but determined, "I want to hear you say it. Why?"

"It was for your own safety, John," Sherlock furrowed his brows and tapped his fingers against his chin before getting up and walking towards the kitchen.

John was startled. "Where are you—?"

"Tea, John," Sherlock shouted loftily, "I believe that—"

But John had jumped to his feet, too. "Oh, no; no you don't. Sherlock Holmes, get back here right now and answer me."

Sherlock stopped short at the commanding tone of John's voice. It was John the former army captain speaking and his tone brooked no resistance, not even from independently minded geniuses.

"Sherlock." John said sharply. He was not in the mood to deal with a precocious consulting detective.

The taller man took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. John wondered for a moment which mask he would wear when he turned around. However, when Sherlock faced him again, he was amazed to see that the detective's face was open and vulnerable. John thought it was rather breath-taking, like an unexpected rainstorm in the middle of the desert.

"I didn't want you to die," it was a simple admission, plain and unadorned.

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, "Sherlock, this might be news to you, but your death, it, ah, nearly killed me."

Sherlock's mouth was a thin line and he continued to gaze intensely at John.

"Yes, I know," he allowed, "That was not my intention."

John nodded sharply and pursed his lips, thinking of how to phrase what he wanted to say next, "Don't you think that it would have been better to let me _know_ what was going on? I could have helped you with Moriarty. I could have gone with you. I could have—"

"I was unwilling to take that risk."

"That wasn't your decision to make! I would have done anything for you, Sherlock," there were tears in John's eyes _again_, goddamn it, and Sherlock's response was less than impassive. In fact, he seemed to be forcibly restraining himself from walking over to John and wiping them away.

"I know," the consulting detective was trying to maintain stillness, "By not telling you, I kept you safe, that was what mattered."

"Sherlock—" John hated the damned voice in the back of his mind that kept asking him what he would have done if the situation had been reversed. Would he have done anything to save Sherlock, even if it resulted in intense pain for both of them? Unquestionably, yes. There was no doubt. He would have done whatever was necessary.

"I couldn't allow anything to happen to you, John. I would have been lost without my blogger," Sherlock offered with a weak smile then, after reflecting for a moment, amended his earlier statement, "I _was_ lost without my blogger."

John could have responded to that confession in any number of ways: he could have taken the bleeding idiot into his arms and kissed the living daylights out of him; he could have broken into a sobbing fit; he could have admitted that he had been completely and utterly lost without his consulting detective; or, of course, he could have punched him again. John Watson did none of these things. Instead, without thinking about it he donned his soldier mask. He covered the still open wounds on his heart and his psyche with a veneer of calm resignation and he faced Sherlock's infrequent openness with a set jaw, constructing strong walls against his own vulnerability. Sherlock seemed to sense the difference (his bright eyes widened and then narrowed). _Well, he would wouldn't he?_ John mused.

"You shouldn't have left," he said quietly, firmly, "You should have told me."

"John, I did these things because—"

For once, John Watson interrupted Sherlock Holmes, "I know _why_, Sherlock. I know _how_. Mycroft told me everything. And I know how difficult it is for you to admit to _feeling_ things," He couldn't quite keep the scathing tone out of his voice, "but, well, I—I can't, we _can't_."

Sherlock seemed distressed but he didn't respond immediately.

"I can't, that is, I couldn't—"

"You are afraid that I will leave you again," Sherlock deduced with a frown on his face.

John simply swallowed, so Sherlock went on, "And, further, you are afraid that you wouldn't be able to survive it if I did. Am I right, John?"

He took John's continued silence as assent and nodded curtly, "I see."

"I just…I…it was bad enough without the, er, the, ah," John licked his lips and paused.

"Added complications?" Sherlock inserted, grimacing, and John nodded, still wearing a mask of stoicism.

"Right," he said simply.

"So, even though we care deeply for each other, you would like us to not act on these feelings in order to protect yourself from any future emotional injury?" Sherlock inquired and John nodded again.

"It's for the best."

"Hmmm…" Sherlock seemed to be retreating behind a protective barrier of his own, carefully fashioned with intellectual barbed wire and a sociopath's clinical indifference. After seeing him so open mere moments ago, watching him behave as if he were in Anderson's company, felt like a punch to John's gut.

"Well?" The question took John by surprise, not least because of the completely businesslike tone that issued from someone who looked like he hadn't slept or eaten in at least a month.

"Well, what?" John stuttered.

"Well, I would have thought that to be obvious. What shall we do now? Do you wish to remain at Baker Street, or, I suppose, the more pertinent question would be if I am still welcome here…Do you wish to also dissolve our professional partnership?" Sherlock paused and considered the situation at hand, "I would not wish to cause you any additional _distress_."

John noticed a slightly derisive undertone to the otherwise coldly detached voice. _Damn it all, Watson_, he thought, _what are you bloody doing? The bastard is fucking alive, you should be happy! You should be savoring this! You are such a bloody __idiot__!_ but John was also thinking about the fact that, regardless of all the declarations and feelings and attraction and emotional entanglements (or perhaps because of all of these things), he couldn't fully trust that Sherlock wouldn't pull the same stunt again. _And then where would you be?_ He couldn't do it, he _wouldn't_.

"Of course you should stay," John said, "Baker Street is ours, the both of ours, and I still want to be your blogger, if you'll have me."

Sherlock arched his brows in a way that was very reminiscent of Mycroft, which both startled and deeply concerned John.

"Well then, it's settled."

"Right."

Somehow this all seemed wrong. It shouldn't be like this. It wasn't meant to be like this. _It has to be like this_, another voice said; _you can't go through that again. Too much has changed. Too much has happened. Better to be partners than __partners_. He needed to step away from Sherlock's intense gaze, catch his breath before he lost his resolve, but it seemed cowardly to leave the flat again so soon.

"I'll just, ah, make some tea, shall I?" He said brightly as he walked brusquely past Sherlock.

In the kitchen, John began to get down saucers and cups, setting water to boil. He had closed his eyes and gripped the counter top bowing his head, taking some steadying breaths. After a minute of two, he heard Sherlock come to the doorway.

"It's ironic," the detective said.

"What is?" John said lightly without turning to face the recently deceased.

"You always wanted me to be the hero," Sherlock's voice sounded slightly strangled, _God, _John thought, _please, don't let him be crying, I can't handle this_. Another voice said _he made his own choice, Watson. Now, you've made yours: stick to it._

Sherlock continued, "I am not a hero, of course, they aren't real. The irony, John, is that the action that brought me closest to meeting that description, of meeting your expectations of self-sacrifice and genuine concern for others, is the very thing that will cost me a happy ending."

Sherlock walked away and moments later John heard him playing the violin. He exhaled deeply and stood unmoving until the kettle began to boil. John busied himself with the tea for as long as possible and emerged dry eyed moments later. He set a cup down for Sherlock and sank into his chair, sipping from his own mug with his eyes closed, listening to the mournful music, trying to disappear into the melodies, and hoping he had the strength for whatever was coming next.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Happy Johnlock's Day, everyone! And welcome, as always, to the new chapter. I realized, as I was posting this, that it is not nearly fluffy enough for such a fluffy holiday. You have my sincerest apologies. I told you that John and Sherlock were being stubborn and I was not lying. Both of them are currently just so conflicted (especially our poor, sad, damaged army doctor). John needs all the hugs. All I want is fluff and all I seem capable of writing at this stage of their relationship is angst. _

_Anyway, what did you guys think of this chapter? Were the boys in character? Were you disappointed/pleased/surprised/conflicted by their long awaited conversation?__  
><em>

_As always, THANK YOU SO MUCH, to everyone that has read, followed, and especially reviewed this story. You guys are awesome and make my day on a regular basis! :D Comments and feedback __are always welcome and they make me want to keep writing. It's awesome to know that so many of you are enjoying this story. So, if you have the chance, let me know what you think! I promise to reply.  
><em>

_Next chapter will be up tomorrow night (East Coast Time)__! Stay tuned!_

_Wishing you jam, jumpers, and lots of love on this happy (meretricious) Johnlock Day!_

_Nic_


	9. Longing Glances and Insidious Plots

Thus began one of the single tensest periods of time that had ever endured at 221B. Worse than the day that Sherlock broke all of the "sanitary laws" that John had imposed about proper food/science separation in the kitchen ("But John, it was important to place the noses in the ice cream…" "Sherlock!"); more severe than the occasion on which John had told Sherlock that no one read his blog ("Come on, you can't pout forever!"). It was even ghastlier than the week in which John had had no sleep because Sherlock was up until 4am every night playing the violin ("I need to _sleep_, Sherlock! Normal people sleep!" "Being normal is vastly overrated, John"); in fact, it was more horrible than the time that John had "interrupted" one of Sherlock's kitchen experiments ("It was of vital importance!" "They're _all_ of bloody vital importance! Maybe if they didn't cover every goddamn surface, I wouldn't be forced to trip over them whenever I went to make a cup of tea!").

No, this was far more intense than any of those instances. The reason for this difference was simple: in all the previous moments of strain and frustration that had occurred in the flat, the boys had expressed their annoyance with one another ("that isn't how you play, Cluedo, Sherlock!" "Don't be a complete idiot, John, it's not my fault you can't see anything unless it's shoved beneath your nose.").

Currently, however, there was nothing but unresolved issues between the two. Oh, they were still _polite_ to each other. In fact, they were far more polite than was customary (especially, when you compared Sherlock's most recent behaviors with those of the past). They said good morning and good evening. They made small talk during the day and spoke about the cases that Lestrade brought for them. They frequented their old haunts (Angelo, in particular, had made a big fuss when the two had gone round to dinner a fortnight after Sherlock had come back). They still functioned as a unit on crime scenes. They continued their individual activities. John still wrote his blog, read the paper, wore a wide array of jumpers in various colors and patterns, and gave Sherlock necessary prods about social etiquette. Sherlock still had moments of complete silence, played the violin at odd hours, and put his intellect to considerable use, throwing tantrums when there was nothing to occupy his mind. In many ways it was life as usual, in many ways, but not all…

They were almost _too_ courteous. It had been six months now, and they were still tiptoeing around each other. Sherlock had been completely respectful of all of John's rules about kitchen experimentation. John had refrained from making any disparaging comments about Sherlock's lack of tact (with other people, anyway, John was more than willing to point out when Sherlock made comments towards him, but there hadn't really been a need lately). There were moments in which their relationship seemed to be almost completely restored. Their banter had resumed and they took up their roles again as if the parts of consulting detective and trusty blogger had simply been waiting to be picked up once more. Some things were just the way that they had been before the "fall."

Except, well, except for when either one thought that other wasn't looking. Oh, the longing glances! When John was deeply engrossed in his morning paper, his hair still damp from the shower, wearing his ratty old robe and sitting in his customary chair, Sherlock would stare at him as if he would devour every single detail of the doctor with his eyes. When Sherlock was playing his violin, completely consumed by the music, body bent over the bow, John felt as if he were enchanted, and gripped the arms of his chair till his fingers went white. He still marveled at the fact that Sherlock was alive. Honestly, he was amazed by that nearly every day.

When they were on crime scenes together, Sherlock was careful to allow John to get a word in edgewise, and John, still occasionally astonished by Sherlock's skills of deduction, would sometimes exclaim, "Amazing," "Fantastic," or "Brilliant!" and Sherlock would look exceedingly pleased, offering the small smile that he reserved for John alone. But, often, John would watch Sherlock deducing and clasp his hands tightly behind his back, feeling like he ought to be saying something more to the effect of "I want you right-fucking-_now_!"

Lestrade shook his head at the two of them. "John," he had said one day while Sherlock was in the mortuary examining their most recent murder victim, "I don't know who you're trying to punish here: you, him, or me."

"You?" John had asked incredulously.

"Yes, _me_," Lestrade returned vehemently, "Sherlock is in my bloody hair every five minutes. Asking me questions about you and begging for cases to distract himself."

Lestrade made a slightly nauseated face, "Not to mention that the two of you keep making eyes at each other when you think the other can't see. Not that you didn't do that before, mind you," John made to protest, but Lestrade would not allow it "Look, I know that you're hurt, but if I have to have another conversation about the state of your relationship with Mycroft or Sherlock, I swear I will go _mad_. You and Sherlock need to talk this out and then have a good shag."

_Well that was helpful,_ John thought. His desire for Sherlock was just about equally matched by his fear of Sherlock, and he was in a state of complete contradiction and frustration. He was also relatively sure that he would start pulling his hair out any day now.

Sherlock had not made any overtures towards John since that first day. It seemed that he was trying to make 221B a comfortable space and do nothing to scare John away, which, of course, wasn't helping the situation at all. John thought that it might actually be Sherlock's insidious plot to weasel his way into John's affections and force the doctor to abandon his hard line on their relationship and act on all of the sexual tension and emotional longing that he was feeling. He tried to tell himself that this was a ridiculous conspiracy theory brought on by his own thwarted desires. Except, well, he wouldn't put it past Sherlock. This was, after all, the same man who had slipped a hallucinogenic into his coffee in order to solve a case. But Sherlock currently seemed to be making the extra effort to extend every possible courtesy to John. In some ways, it was quite eerie. Having Sherlock make breakfast (coffee and tea without drugs, this time), buy milk from Tescos, and compose violin pieces just for John was not in any way meant to bolster the doctor's resolve. In fact, John was certain that it was intended to drive him crazy, and in that case, it was working perfectly. The next thing he knew Sherlock would buy him a subscription to the jam of the month club and start knitting him jumpers before showing up in his bed naked. John sighed, _what have I gotten myself into?_

That was the question that John had asked himself with varying degrees of exasperation every day since he had met Sherlock Holmes. There had been moments in which he had certainly wondered if any of this was worth it, particularly when Sherlock had "died." These days however, well, when he wasn't too busy nearly _dying_ himself from the extreme tension, he was quite certain that he would do anything to make sure Sherlock stayed. As complicated and dysfunctional at it was, he would never be able to extricate himself from this relationship and he was damn sure that he didn't want to try. _God, help me_, he thought to himself.

"John, why are you making that face?" Sherlock said without looking up from his microscope.

John was startled out of his reverie, "Sorry, what?"

"You're making a face." Sherlock surveyed him carefully.

John rolled his eyes and sighed, "Well I can't bloody tell, can I? It's my face."

Sherlock smiled and went back to examining his slides.

"Did you figure out the Davis case?" John said picking up his laptop.

"About five minutes after Lestrade called," Sherlock said with tedium, "It was the step-daughter."

"Oh?"

"The pencils, John."

"Right. Brilliant."

"Indeed."

"You seem rather, er, calm, for not having a case," John said suspiciously, "Not that I'm complaining, mind you, it's just, ah—"

Sherlock smirked, "Are you bored, John? Would you like me to entertain you?"

John flushed slightly, _why did his mind have to go in all the wrong directions over such a simple question? Unless_, he thought, _it wasn't a simple question and was an intentional provocation, in which case—__Gah!__ Mad, that man is going to drive me stark raving __mad__._

"Lestrade left another case for us," Sherlock continued seemingly oblivious to John's internal conflict as he continued to twirl dials, "Shouldn't take long; we might grab a bite to eat afterwards."

"Sounds good," John returned assuming that meant that he would eat while Sherlock sat and watched him like a hawk.

The detective and the blogger spent the afternoon comfortably consumed by their individual pursuits. They spoke normally and left the flat just after dusk. As John closed the door behind him, he was looking forward to a nice, quiet adventure. Rush of adrenaline, collection of evidence, criminal apprehended, maybe they could stop for Thai on their way home. He didn't know, and not even Sherlock could have deduced, that this evening would be one of the single most defining moments in their life together…not, that is, until it was much too late…

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><p><em>AN:<em>

_Hi, everyone! Welcome to Chapter IX. I do hope you enjoyed. The tone was a bit lighter. Please, consider this the calm before the storm...there is an epic amount of angst in the next two chapters...I do promise that it will be resolved, eventually. And, as a reward for all the emotional damage I am causing both to you (my lovely readers!) and Sherlock and John (who really __don't deserve this abuse), I am accepting suggestions/requests for a fluffy one-shot, which I will write/publish once this story is finished and before __I start to work on my next multi-chapter Sherlock fic. So leave a review, comments, or PM me if you have any suggestions. You guys deserve it. :D_

_As always THANK YOU to everyone who has read, followed, or *especially* reviewed this fic. You guys regularly make my day and you inspire me to keep writing. If you get the chance, leave a review to let me know what you thought of this chapter. _

_Side note: I have an eye-exam tomorrow, which will probably leave me blind for most of the afternoon, so I am going to try to finish tidying up __chapter 10, so that I can post it tomorrow before I lose my sight for several hours. If not, it'll be up tomorrow night. _:D


	10. Unglued

The evening had started simply enough, it was meant to, after all. John and Sherlock had gone out to work on cases at night before, many times. They usually came home riding high on adrenaline, laughing, joking, or, occasionally, genuinely arguing. Sometimes they stopped for food on the way, sometimes not. Often they managed to make some headway on whatever case they were attempting to solve. John would have made some sort of seemingly innocuous discovery from which Sherlock would have extrapolated the exact details of the murder, theft, kidnapping, burglary, etc.

That was how the evening _ought_ to have gone. Instead, several hours after they had left the flat, Sherlock Holmes found himself seated in the waiting room at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, while John Watson lay on a gurney in a nearby operating room.

Sherlock's face was once again buried in his hands as he attempted to revisit the evening in all of its details. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn't seem to focus, and was therefore incapable of pinpointing the exact moment in which things had gone so terribly wrong. He struggled to clear his thoughts and go to his mind palace, but everything in his brain was short circuiting. He was twitching with nerves, jogging his leg. He kept running his hands through his hair. Damn, he needed a cigarette, an entire carton, in fact. Possibly, something stronger. More than anything, he needed John. _Immediately_. He couldn't handle this. He'd been trapped out here since they had arrived. And in that indeterminable amount of time (it could have been minutes, hours, days, Sherlock couldn't be sure) he had paced relentlessly, harassed all the available medical personnel, and reduced several nurses to tears. He had shouted and stormed about, actually tried to force his way into the operating room, they called security when one of the doctor's recognized him as that "Loony, from the mortuary."

They had steered him into a chair, in which he now sat frozen. Sherlock groaned and wiped his burning, tired eyes, leaving tracks of blood on his cheeks. He looked at his hands with detachment. John's blood.

John's blood was on his hands. He stared with fascination at the pale red splotched extremities attached to his wrists. His clothing was also coated in a thick layer of crimson and there were splatters on his face and hair. Sherlock began shaking. _I am in shock_, he observed with dispassion, but none of the medical staff seemed to be willing to offer him a blanket. In fact, everyone seemed to be giving him a wide berth.

_It was my fault_ Sherlock thought. He heard a ringing sound in his hears and a strange keening noise. He wondered vaguely where it was coming from as he wrapped his arms about himself and began to rock slowly back and forth.

It had been a simple miscalculation that had led Sherlock and John to their present circumstances. They had been watching the flat of a delightful gentleman suspected of having murdered his five-year old niece.

"He is obviously guilty," Sherlock had told John as the got out of their cab a mere block away from the man's apartment. Sherlock pulled his gloves on, great-coat flying out behind him as he strode away from the curb. John shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked at Sherlock's side.

"Then why are we here?" John asked.

"Reconnaissance mission," Sherlock smiled, "It was an excellent opportunity to get out of the flat. I know how you enjoy our little sight-seeing trips, John."

John laughed, "So this is all for my benefit, then?"

"Partially," Sherlock smiled, "I was also bored."

"When are you ever not?" John asked, and Sherlock glanced over at him but chose to smile enigmatically rather than reply, _when I'm with you. _

When they arrived just outside the suspect's flat, John had kept watch whilst Sherlock collected evidence from the surrounding environment. The (selectively) charming detective made small talk with the suspect's neighbor and deduced that the two were having an affair. After several moments' conversation with John (who was regularly charming without much effort), they convinced her that they were friends of the accused, and she let them into the flat, which they began exploring rather meticulously: John in the kitchen, Sherlock in the sitting room. After fifteen minutes, Sherlock was quite sure that he had found enough evidence (a train ticket, a blood stained handkerchief, two particular black ball-point pens, and a unique type of personalized desk stationary) to prove his theory correct and he was disappointed that the case had not been more challenging. He had apparently not learned any valuable lessons about being careful what he wished for because it was then that he heard the front door swing open.

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock said as he turned to face the man in whose sitting room he now stood. It took the consulting detective all of five seconds to deduce that the man had been heavily drinking, hadn't slept more than five hours in the past week, was in the midst of an emotionally draining divorce, had definitely committed the murder, and was more or less completely willing to fire the handgun he held pointed at the young man before him. John heard Sherlock's voice and came over to stand in the doorway to the kitchen, out of the gunman's line of sight, but clearly within Sherlock's. The detective shook his head slightly and John stood perfectly still, heart racing, considering the situation carefully.

"What are you doing in my flat?" the suspect asked aggressively.

"So predictable," Sherlock said rolling his eyes.

_Sherlock_, John thought tensely, _this is not the best time to antagonize the "ordinary people!"_

Sherlock seemed to know exactly what John was thinking and said, "Oh? Quite. I was looking for evidence with which to convict you for the recent murder of your niece.

"I can see, however," Sherlock continued, "this this is a bad time. I will call again."

He made to walk away, but the man continued to point his gun straight at Sherlock's head. That was when things got out of hand. John's vision went black, his palms were sweating; he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. The two men in the sitting room were still talking, but John couldn't hear them. All he knew was that he _would_ _not_ lose Sherlock again. Sherlock seemed to be trying to tell him something with his eyes, but John didn't spare the time to translate it.

Instead, he moved swiftly and instinctively when he saw the suspect's hand tense, "Oi!" he shouted. The man was distracted and he spun towards John, his finger tightening on the trigger as he did so. The first shot was reflex, the second, and third were momentum. John looked down at himself placing his hands over his best oatmeal jumper, which was slowly turning red. _Odd_ he thought _I don't feel a thing._ His knees gave out and he slid to the floor.

The next few moments were a blur for John. Sherlock must have subdued the attacker, or so John assumed, since the detective's face was hovering inches away from his own. Long trembling fingers were gripping John's chin forcing him to look into pale piercing eyes and pressing down on his torso. He saw Sherlock's mouth moving but he couldn't distinguish the words. He had so many things to say, but he was unable to form the necessary sounds. _I love you_. _I'm sorry_. _It'll be all right_. He wanted to touch Sherlock's face, which was contorted into a shaken unrecognizable mask of grief and panic. _Bloody hell, he's beautiful_ he thought. _He cares_. John's vision was fading at the edges. Everything felt so far away, so detached. He was gasping for air; Sherlock was crying, screaming, pleading. _Don't leave me_, was John's last thought before he lost consciousness.

Sherlock hadn't, not for a moment. Once upon a time, it felt like several lifetimes ago now, Sherlock had used gunfire to summon the police like a magic talisman. That trick apparently worked in instances where he wasn't the one firing the gun. A neighbor had called the Yard and the police arrived to find an unconscious shooter in the entry way and a screaming and crying Sherlock bent over John's body, covered in blood.

The paramedics moved swiftly. The exact details were distorted shadows in Sherlock's mind. He had ridden in the ambulance with John, holding his hand tightly, refusing to let go of his blogger under any circumstances. When they arrived at the hospital, he had had to be forcibly restrained from accompanying John into surgery. He had screamed, raged, and caused considerable distress for everyone in his immediate vicinity.

That was when they had called security who had contacted the police. Luckily, it had been Lestrade who replied to the call. One look at Sherlock was all it took to confirm the worst. The DI had had a word with the on duty nurse to confirm John's status, which was intensive. He called Mycroft and Harry. And, most ambitiously, tried to calm Sherlock, draping a shock blanket over the detective's thin, shaking shoulders.

Ten minutes later, Mycroft had come into the emergency room wielding his umbrella like a sword, making demands of everyone in attendance, and looking down his long nose at the staff when they did not respond quickly enough. He sat with his brother trying to ask him what had happened without getting any verbal responses. Greg hovered at Sherlock's elbow, attempting to comfort, but the younger Holmes remained impassive and indifferent to external stimuli. Mycroft and he shared a glance in which an entire conversation took place. Sherlock's elder brother tucked his shock blanket more tightly about his person and then left to make some calls. Greg went to get tea (and maybe some sedatives).

Four hours later, Sherlock was still seated in his chair, covered in blood, mind replaying the scene of John lying there on the floor as Sherlock had begged him to hold on over and over and over again. _He can't die_, Sherlock thought, even as his mind presented him with the troubling odds of the situation, which confirmed that John's death was extremely likely. Sherlock could still hear that peculiar high-pitched wailing, which he realized, with a curious sense of disinterest, was coming from his own mouth. _Odd_.

He could not lose John. He _could not_. Sherlock had no control over the situation; he lacked even the ability to move, excepting of course the repetitive rocking. He felt like a single step could cause the world to fall apart. If he stayed still, perhaps John would be all right. If he had been in his right mind, Sherlock would have been disgusted with the irrationality of his own thoughts. _Perhaps I will never be in my right mind again,_ he thought strangely unconcerned, _perhaps without John I shall simply become the crazed lunatic people seemed to take me for_. He found that he didn't care at all. If John weren't here, it wouldn't matter.

Mycroft and Greg were taking it in turns to sit with him. Fearful, no doubt that he would fly into a fit and hurt himself or someone else in his attempts to get to John. Sherlock dug his fingers into his palms and continued rocking. At the present moment, his brother and the DI were conferring quietly just out of Sherlock's hearing. Greg was gesturing vehemently, clearly pointing to Sherlock and then making an upward flinging motion. Mycroft was leaning away from Greg, shaking his head sharply and then fidgeting briefly with his umbrella. Greg dropped his arms by his sides, defeated and Mycroft reached over and pulled the silver-haired man towards himself.

Sherlock couldn't watch anymore. Not when John…

Later, Sherlock would retain certain moments from that evening with perfect clarity; they would frequently appear relentless and pitiless in his nightmares for years to come. Other moments he could never fully recapture, and he would wonder if his brain had deleted them without his active consent. He would always refer to this as the longest night of his life. He refused the change of clothes that Mycroft had had brought for him. He unresistingly drank down the cup of tea that Greg kept forcing on him, more to stop the persistent nagging, than out of any sense of thirst. He continued drinking even after he sensed the calming drug that Greg had slipped into it.

Hours passed, filled with pacing, rocking, and all-consuming fear. Besides the keening, Sherlock had not spoken since before Lestrade had arrived and all he could see when he shut his eyes (and when he opened them) was John's seemingly lifeless body the moment when his gaze had lost focus, despite Sherlock's frantic entreaties.

Six hours after John had gone into surgery, Sherlock was still huddled in his shock blanket. Lestrade was rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand leaning towards Mycroft's chest. Mycroft was gently stroking Greg's hair with his eyes fixed on his younger brother, whose blank stare suggested that his attention was focused inward. It was on this tableau of devastation that John's doctor emerged ten minutes later, cap in hand, face inscrutable.

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><p><em>AN<em>

_So, what did you think? Intense? Horrible? Believable? Cruel? Was Sherlock really OOC? I firmly believed that if faced with a crisis like this Sherlock would actually handle it worse than John if only because John is far more accustomed to feelings, whereas Sherlock would be completely overloaded and have absolutely no clue how to process any of the emotional input. _

_Anyway…did you enjoy it? Please, take the time to review or comment, your feedback makes my day and inspires to keep me writing._

_You Were My Life has two more chapters. Once it's finished I will write/post a one-shot fluff fest (requests welcome) before beginning two multi-chapter fics: one will take place right after this concludes; the other will be about Greg meeting the Holmes' brothers. _

_Thank you to everyone who has read, followed, and reviewed. You make this all worth it. _

_Chapter XI will be up tomorrow. _


	11. Restructured Mind Palace

Sherlock looked up, and, for the first time since he had arrived at St. Bart's, information seemed to process. He leapt to his feet and would have certainly accosted the surgeon had Lestrade not caught him by the elbow, "Steady," the older man said softly.

Mycroft took charge of the situation, looking down his nose aristocratically, and "Well?"

Sherlock held his breath.

"He's alive…" the doctor began. He continued speaking, but Sherlock didn't hear a word. It was only Lestrade's firm hand on his arm that kept him fixed in place.

"…He's still in recovery now. He probably won't come around for a while. His injuries were quite severe." The doctor looked at all of their faces. "Once he's been moved, you can go in and see him."

"Thank you, doctor," Mycroft said, and his voice, though still supercilious, held notes of genuine relief.

_John is alive_, Sherlock thought. _He is going to be fine_.

"It's gonna be okay, mate," Greg pulled him into a hug and Sherlock was actually so shocked and exhausted that he didn't resist. Without any sense of self-consciousness, he leaned into Greg, closing his eyes and taking deep racking breaths.

"Shhhhh, Sherlock, shhhh," Greg murmured. Sherlock eventually pulled back and Mycroft, who had been standing nearby, watching the proceedings closely, handed him an immaculate white handkerchief, which Sherlock proceeded to cover with tears, snot, and blood, while his brother looked on with a strained smile.

It seemed an eternity to Sherlock before he was permitted to see John. When he did, he went alone, under his own power, though he was still quite shaky.

John was pale, as he lay in the hospital bed. Tubes went in and out of his person; his torso was wrapped in bandages. An IV dripped steadily by his side, and a monitor beeped, tracking his heart. He looked small and weak, and Sherlock paused to observe this fragility. His John was broken.

Sherlock approached the bed with a strange trepidation. He did not like to see John like this. Not at all. He was afraid that his blogger might actually fall to pieces, and he didn't want confirm John's injuries. Sherlock was, for once, reluctant to trust the evidence of his own eyes. He did not want to believe that any of this had happened.

John's survival was a fact, but Sherlock was afraid to confirm it, lest it be a trick of some kind. _Love makes people irrational_. John had told him that once, and, for some reason, it came into his head now, as he perched on the chair nearest the bed and stared at his only friend's still form.

It didn't smell like John in this room. It smelled of antiseptics and medicines, disinfectant, and it raised the fine hairs on Sherlock's forearms. John always smelled of wool and ink, of tea and toast, and sometimes strawberry around his fingers, sweat from a chase. Whenever Sherlock inhaled around John, the scents that met his nose made him feel that he was home. To be in John's presence but not have John _be _present was unnerving. He didn't like it. It would be best if John would wake up now.

Sherlock steeled himself and reached out his hand, slowly, tentatively, until it rested on top of John's, and he held tightly to it. He brought his other hand to John's face, feeling the stubble, the crow's feet, and the dry cracked mouth. He laid his head down on top of their linked hands and, as he gently stroked the calloused fingers, thought, _Thank you_.

At various point in his life Sherlock's friends and relations, acquaintances, enemies, clients, basically anyone who had ever met the man, had all commented upon his brilliance, his complete lack of tact, and his obstinacy. These three qualities had never been so prominently displayed and inflicted upon others as they were whilst John Watson remained in critical care at St. Bart's.

Sherlock was absolutely unwilling, upon any inducement, to leave his blogger's side.

"Sherlock Holmes, I understand you current state of distress, but you must stop behaving like a _child_," Mycroft had scolded, while Lestrade stood behind him holding a change of clothes for the erstwhile detective.

"I am _not_ behaving like a child," Sherlock said quietly, refusing to break his vigil over John's still form, even to spare his brother a glance.

Mycroft looked back at Greg with an expression that said quite clearly, "What am I doing to do with him?" Greg shrugged sheepishly, and Mycroft rolled his eyes skyward, turning back to Sherlock.

"Fine," the elder Holmes said scathingly, "I am sure that it will be _most_ gratifying for you when John awakens, only to have a heart attack brought on by the sight of the blood stained _savage_ seated at his bed side. If that is what you want, so be it."

He made to turn away theatrically, when Sherlock sighed and reached out his spare hand (the other he maintained linked with John's) for the clothes. Mycroft gave a satisfied smile to Greg, who just barely contained a grin. Getting any sort of response from Sherlock lately had been so difficult that he would take what he could get.

Lestrade handed the suit and toiletries to the younger man, directing him towards the lavatory and saying quietly, "It's all right, I'll stay with him."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously, still unwilling to move away from John. Greg sighed and forcibly unlinked the detective's hand from that of his blogger, spinning him in the direction of the shower, and giving him a slight shove.

"Go," he urged, "He'll be all right with me."

After a moment's consideration, Sherlock nodded tightly with a look on his face that said quite clearly that, if anything did befall John in his absence, he would hold Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade personally responsible. Then he flounced away after sparing a longing glace at the still figure in the bed.

Lestrade sighed as he sat down and stared at John, "You need to come back, mate. If only to reign in that lunatic."

Mycroft gazed after Sherlock with a thoughtful look on his face. "So _dramatic_." Greg was under the impression that it was meant to be a scathing critique, but it came across as deeply concerned.

"I wonder where he gets _that _from."

Mycroft chuckled, and the two kept watch till Sherlock returned, looking much more like himself in a clean suit and with a blood-free visage. However, the brief interlude hadn't been enough to alleviate the haunted look about his face, the dark circles around his eyes, or the gouges in his palms from where his nails had dug into the flesh.

Over the next few days, Greg and Mycroft were especially careful to make sure that Sherlock remembered to eat ("You'll pass out before he wakes up!") and drink ("John wouldn't want you to behave like this"). Greg was the primary instigator on both counts, while Mycroft glared at Sherlock's stubbornness and needled when necessary. Neither could force him to sleep, and they could not manage to pry him away from John's bed for more than five minutes at a time. Though they found Sherlock's desperation worrisome, they were, in some ways, secretly thankful. His single minded fixation on John prevented him from going to any extremes (it would be far too simple for Sherlock to access opiates in this environment, and his current mental state did not preclude that eventuality).

Sherlock passed the majority of his time in a trancelike condition from which he could not be roused. He sat, staring fixedly at John and relieving every moment of their relationship in excruciating detail. He remembered the day they met, their first adventure, the number of times that they had been in danger, and the ways in which they had always managed to survive. He thought of their arguments over trivialities, their banter and flirtation. He pictured John's disappointment, his anger. In his mind, Sherlock saw John alive and laughing after a chase through London's alleys at night. He heard John exclaiming at his brilliance and scolding him for his idiocy. He saw thousands of Johns. John in the morning reading the paper; John at his laptop typing a blog entry with mind-numbing slowness; John at Angelo's eating dinner, telling him that it was all fine; John spreading jam on his toast, making tea, fresh from the shower, choosing a jumper. He remembered John's mouth on his the night he had come home again…

More frequently, though, Sherlock dwelled on John's face when Sherlock had "died," the stricken look that he had worn when Sherlock delivered his note. He revisited the tears John had shed in the cemetery. The empty look he had so frequently worn in the park or the store or the surgery. The troubled expression Sherlock had seen so often, while he had stood so close and yet so far from his blogger. Sherlock wore that expression now. He was haunted by the scene of John lying, bleeding, deathly pale, and deaf to Sherlock's desperation.

When Sherlock had come home again, John had looked at him as if he were a ghost. He had scolded Sherlock again and again for having left him. John had been adamant that the pain he had gone through had been unbearable. Sherlock hadn't understood; he did now. The lies, the separation, the deceit, all meant to protect John, yet…Sherlock was still seated at the side of the one-person in the entire world for whom he would sacrifice his life and happiness, and all he could think of were the missed moments that they could have passed together. He did not regret having saved John; it had been the right decision, but he deeply regretted the intense pain that he had inflicted upon his dearest friend. If this feeling, so intense that Sherlock was sure that he was bleeding and tearing himself apart inside, the type of hurt that nothing short of John himself could relieve, if _this_ was what John had felt every day for a year…Sherlock could hardly countenance the cruelty that he had visited upon this man that he loved so deeply.

He thought of this every moment of every day.

He was only forcibly pulled out of his musings by Mycroft and Lestrade, and he came unwillingly and under the greatest duress. He also rallied himself to consult (read: viciously interrogate and insult) John's doctors. Mycroft, who had flown in specialists from across the country and the continent, was affronted by Sherlock's behavior. Lestrade was completely unsurprised. Sherlock didn't give a damn about either of their reactions; he hadn't gotten a medical degree, but had made extensive studies of gunshot wounds in the course of his work and had plenty to say on the subject. _John __will__ receive the best possible care and the incompetent idiot who mistreats him will die. Slowly and painfully_, Sherlock thought with a grim, cold, determination, and he resumed his watch.

This continued for three days, during which time John lay still and unmoving and Sherlock couldn't be bothered with anything beyond John's health. He was, more or less, completely beside himself. Mycroft and Greg became increasingly concerned and frustrated. The medical staff began to actively avoid the lunatic detective in (ironically) room 221. All the while, John slept on, blissfully unaware of anything that transpired around him and probably more relaxed than he had been in over a year.

This could have gone for an indeterminate period off time…until, that is, the morning in which John's fingers twitched in Sherlock's. This caused the detective to tighten his grip and peer into John's face as if, through sheer force of will, he could pull him into a state of consciousness. His blogger's eyelids flickered, and Sherlock held his breath, until they slowly opened.

John focused blearily at the face before him. He was confused, disoriented, and his throat was dry, but he managed to croak, "Sherlock?"

Surprisingly, this caused Sherlock to laugh in a strangled way and smile, a real, genuine, beatific smile. He squeezed John's hand gently and brought his other hand to cup John's cheek.

"John," Sherlock's voice was rusty from disuse as well but it was infused with relief, "You're all right. I'm here John."

John twined his fingers with the detective's and felt a strange wetness on his face, which he realized after a moment, was caused by tears, Sherlock's tears.

"I'm glad," John said gruffly and Sherlock continued stroking his face in wonderment as John closed his eyes again.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Chapter IX! What did you think? I know, still a bit angsty, but a certain someone desperately needed a bit of introspection. I hope that this was at least mildly believable. Sherlock is a very stubborn creature, and, though I'm sorry that I had to put both of them through such an ordeal, something dramatic had to happen to force Sherlock into a state of emotional epiphany._

_And John is alive! Did you ever doubt me? We can't have a happy ending without John. Only one chapter left in this story. Look out for a prequel and a sequel in the works!_

_Finally THANK YOU to everyone who has read, followed, and reviewed this fic. Your support, encouragement, and enthusiasm are amazing. I love you more than John loves jam, which, as we all know, is considerable._

_Please, leave a comment/review; let me know what you think. The next chapter (the finale) will be posted tomorrow evening._

_Lots of love,_

_Nic_


	12. Chapter 12

After that, there was a positive flurry of activity. Nurses and doctors were summoned to check John's vitals and responsiveness. John was disoriented and vaguely bemused by the proceedings, but through it all he refused to let go of Sherlock, which was just as well because Sherlock would not tolerate being separated from John.

The doctors confirmed that John was healing nicely, and his prognosis was quite good. What he needed most was rest and quiet. The doctor had glared pointedly at Sherlock as he said this, which had caused John to chuckle weakly before clutching at his torso, protective of the sharp pain caused by his recent injuries. Sherlock had taken one look at his blogger's reaction and then verbally abused the doctor for having upset him. The renowned specialist left in a huff.

"You shouldn't terrorize the medics, Sherlock," John said without much reproach, wondering what type of chaos Sherlock had caused for the hospital in the three days that he had been unconscious, "They control my meds and my food for the time being."

Sherlock considered this briefly, then said with disdain, "They wouldn't dare try anything."

John rolled his eyes and then closed them reaching out for Sherlock's hand, which the detective took.

"Rest, John," he said soothingly taking his customary position in the chair beside John's bed and staring in wonderment him, "I'll be right here." John drifted off to sleep with a contented look on his face.

During the period of John's convalescence, Sherlock rarely left his side, and then only because John insisted. There was only so much of overly-protective-Sherlock that he could take in one sitting. John was alternately pleased with the devoted attention and exasperated to the point of wanting to strangle the man. The latter instances were often brought on by his own latent frustration with being a patient, which he _loathed_, and having to mostly remain still and slow in a hospital bed.

"This isn't the first time I've been shot, Sherlock," he snapped one morning, as Sherlock continued to fuss about his pillows. John was desperately trying to get the detective to leave, even if only to get them some tea. But at the blogger's comment, Sherlock had stopped abruptly and his entire person had hardened momentarily.

"I'm aware of that, John," he said, "But it will be the last," and he swooped theatrically out of the room before John could reply.

While Sherlock was out, Lestrade walked in to find John reading a crime novel.

"How're you feeling?"

"Sore, but, ah, not bad," John said, setting the book aside, "I'd be better if Sherlock quit the damn nursemaid act."

Greg laughed, "Good luck with that."

"Yeah…" John trailed off resignedly but he couldn't stop the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

"Look, John," Greg began, "I came here for two reasons.

"I don't know if you and Sherlock have discussed what happened…but, er, you should know that whole nursemaid routine, it's…," He cleared his throat and looked pointedly at John, "Sherlock didn't leave you. Not for a minute. I don't think, scratch that, I _know_ that I've never him that torn up about anything."

John looked uncomfortable.

"If you hadn't pulled through, well…I don't like to think about what would have happened."

John frowned, neither did he. He nodded at Greg. The DI didn't have to continue, he knew what he was trying to get at.

Greg surveyed John and then nodded, "Right, well that's that settled then. Take care, all right? I'll stop by tomorrow to get him out of your hair for a bit, yeah?" He clapped John on the shoulder.

"Thanks," John said with feeling, and Greg made to leave, "Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"You said there were two things?"

"Oh," Greg grinned, "You should be aware of the fact the Mrs. Hudson has completely restocked your jumper collection while you've been here. It's meant to be a surprise, but, thought you should be prepared; some of them are a sight," the two men exchanged an exasperated look.

Lestrade continued somewhat sheepishly, "Also, Mycroft has ordered what I believe to be the contents of an entire bakery as a get well gift," Greg rolled his eyes and John had to laugh at the expression. He often wore it himself when dealing with Sherlock's more extreme _quirks_, "I personally think it's an excuse to smuggle some muffins, but you never know." Greg winked.

"I'm glad that you're okay, John," The DI seemed to seriously consider something for a moment, "Take care of my boy, don't let him run you too ragged."

John nodded. As Greg left, he could hear Sherlock arguing with a nurse in the corridor and John groaned before hiding his face in his hands.

By the time that John was released, the hospital staff was more than happy to see the back of them, particularly Sherlock.

221B had never looked more beautiful to John than it did the day when he stepped out of the cab and Sherlock helped him to climb the stairs to the flat. Sherlock had barely helped him settle comfortably on the sofa, when Mrs. Hudson stopped up, bustling about, making a fuss over John, presenting him with tea and biscuits and blankets and jumpers until John was quite sure the he would suffocate. She was making such a fuss about his injuries that he barely restrained himself from telling her to just bloody bugger off. Sherlock seemed to know just exactly what he was thinking and when their eyes met from where the detective stood just out of Mrs. Hudson's orbit, the blogger had to turn his laugh into a cough to save the land lady's feelings.

Lestrade had lied neither about the intensity of their Mrs. Hudson's fervor nor the appalling nature of some of the jumpers that she presented to John. Sherlock smirked as he examined the many gastronomical gifts that Mycroft (and by extension Lestrade) had sent (though the note said quite clearly that the idea had been Mycroft's. Greg's gift would be something more akin to the next most gruesome case he came across). This suited both boys much better. Some of the various hampers, Sherlock was pleased to note, seemed to be missing the odd sweet (though, thankfully, nothing made with jam).

Finally, Mrs. Hudson had left (under protest). The various jumpers, muffins, and excess blankets had been bundled off to the kitchen and Sherlock and John were left alone.

"Can I get you anything?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I'm all right," John sighed, "just knackered."

The consulting detective nodded, "Understandable. I'll just let you get some rest then, shall I?"

He made to leave, but John held up his hand to halt his progress, "No, wait."

Sherlock paused.

"Sit with me?"

The world's only consulting detective smiled a small smile, it was so well hidden that if you hadn't known him well, you would have completely missed it, "If you wish," he said simply.

He walked around towards his customary chair facing John, but before he could sit, the former army doctor interceded again, "No," he indicated the sofa where he himself was lounging, "here."

Sherlock didn't hesitate. He came over to where John was sitting and gingerly, ever so gently helped him to move until he lay across Sherlock's lap, his chest pressed against Sherlock's torso, looking up at the detective. It was as if some unwritten law about physical contact had been breached during their time in the hospital and John didn't regret it one bit. As Sherlock softly brushed his fingers through John's hair in a soothing repetitive motion, part of the blogger wondered why had ever waited so long. _I suppose near death experiences force you to reevaluate your priorities_ he thought. He offered his hand and Sherlock took it in his spare one, smiling down at John.

"I would do it again," John said firmly from his reclined position, head cushioned by the Union Jack pillow. Sherlock's countenance darkened in response.

"I would not allow that."

"I don't regret it," John said with as much vehemence as he could muster. Sherlock held his fingers tightly.

"But I do, John," the blogger made to respond, but Sherlock shushed him, "No, John, I _understand_."

John looked completely puzzled and Sherlock sighed, attributing John's mental slowness to recent physical trauma.

"I thought," his voice hitched. and he cleared his throat, "I _thought_ that you were dead or, at the very least, dying, John." The blogger observed tears standing in Sherlock's eyes as he stared at the opposite wall, "Nothing else mattered to me, than that you would survive."

He paused for a moment, "If you had…John, I _understand_." He shifted his gaze from the wall to John's face, and gazed into his eyes with such intensity that it was overwhelming, "I _understand_ and I am _sorry_. John, I am so, so very sorry."

Sherlock Holmes who rarely admitted anything remotely resembling a fault or a flaw, who didn't like to acknowledge being wrong, was apologizing. Genuinely. He was also crying; John felt the warm tears, falling onto his forehead. He released Sherlock's hand in order to reach up and brush them away, making vague shushing noises, "There, it's all right."

He traced the contours of Sherlock's face. He ran his calloused fingers over the high cheekbones and the aristocratic nose, the sharp brow, and he brushed unruly curls out of Sherlock's eyes. He had struggled for so long with the idea that Sherlock had abandoned him, had left him, and not given a damn, or understood the depth of pain that John had been through. He hadn't, not really. John simply couldn't understand how Sherlock could possibly have allowed him to grieve him, to mourn him, but he understood that now, too. He had done it to save John's life, had risked his own well-being, to protect John, and left him torn to pieces. Wasn't that what he himself had done a mere week ago? Saved Sherlock and damn the consequences, no matter what the fall out would be for either of them. It wasn't exactly the same, it couldn't be the same, but it was similar.

Tears glittered in Sherlock's dark lashes and John felt them springing up in his own eyes.

"Sherlock," he intoned gruffly, and the detective stared down at him, "I _know_." He stared at Sherlock and made a decision that he was sure he couldn't have made months ago, "I forgive you." He meant it and Sherlock, seemingly understanding the significance of this moment, nodded tremulously, "But you should know, that I don't regret this. I would do it again."

Sherlock seemed about to protest, but John placed a hand over his mouth striking him dumb (newly defined rules for physical contact could occasionally be beneficial in conversation, John noted), "It's who we are, Sherlock. I would do anything for you," he paused, "and you would do anything for me, in your own weird Sherlock way," the detective narrowed his eyes, but this was important, so John continued, "We're going to make a deal though. Let's try not to get ourselves killed in the process, yeah? I don't think that either of us could live with that, and we're in this together, right?" Sherlock nodded.

"Right then," he removed his hand and Sherlock positively beamed, "Now that that's settled."

"John?" Sherlock had returned to stroking his head and John still had his hand on Sherlock's cheek gently rubbing his finger along the delicate bone structure beneath the alabaster skin.

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to _inconvenience _you because I understand that you have a very clear stance on the issue," Sherlock was watching John's expression intently, as the doctor furrowed his brow listening to Sherlock's seemingly casual voice, "especially during your recovery, which is, of course, of critical importance to your continuing—"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Get to the point."

"Quite," Sherlock cleared his throat and, using his best deduction tone with his gaze fixed on John as if he had just solved the single most challenging case of his career, he pronounced "I love you."

John nodded, "That's good."

"Indeed."

"Sherlock?" John's gaze didn't waver, consequences and complications be damned, "I love you, too, you bloody idiot."

Sherlock's countenance transformed into the most beautiful smile John had ever seen, "I'm quite happy to hear that," and he leaned over and pressed his mouth to John's, slowly and lingeringly, whilst John reached up behind Sherlock's head, fisting his fingers in the detective's dark curls and pulling him nearer, deeper.

Sherlock shifted his position somewhat, trying to get a better angle, and John tried to pull himself up, closer, more, but then there was a sharp pain in his side and he grimaced, at which point Sherlock pulled back and John groaned.

"Have I hurt you?" The intense and all-consuming nature of his apprehension would have been rather endearing, if not for current state of John's frustration.

"No," John reassured the detective, "just my bloody, stupid, stiches."

Sherlock continued to look worried but didn't press the issue, "You should rest."

John rolled his eyes twining his hand with Sherlock's once again, whilst his other rested protectively on his side, where the recent injury still ached sharply, "That's all I sodding do, anymore, rest. This bloody, damned—"

"John?"

He stopped his rant and looked up to find Sherlock's concerned expression paired with freshly kissed lips and strangely dark eyes and he was struck dumb, which had probably been Sherlock's intention.

"I respect and quite sympathize with you current level of psychological, emotional, and sexual frustration. But it would be best to wait until we can be sure that you won't bleed to death before we allow things to progress further."

John rolled his eyes but couldn't contain the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth; _leave it to Sherlock to get right to the heart of the issue in the least flowery way possible._

"That being the case, it would be best if you took advantage of your recuperation period."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, indeed. Once you have recovered, your energies will be sufficiently depleted on a regular basis." Sherlock grinned wickedly. John hadn't known that he was capable of making such a face.

"Now, please, rest, John," Sherlock had resumed finger combing John's hair with a hypnotic rhythm that John thought was designed to lull him to sleep. It was working, he felt like his eyelids were being weighed down with lead.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I'm glad you're home." Sherlock looked at John with such tenderness it would have startled the blogger if he had looked up.

"So am I, John." _I'm home as long as I am with you_ he thought as he ran his fingers across John's forehead.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was becoming more muzzled, he was drifting off. _He still tires so easily_.

"Hm?"

"I love you."

Sherlock continued his ministrations, "I love you too, John." He felt his own eyes begin to close, he had barely slept in…he couldn't remember the last time.

"John?" he felt consciousness sleeping away. Here he sat, Sherlock Holmes, king of boredom, scornful of all things ordinary, domestic, dull, and emotive, in the midst of a scene that could have been described as any of those things as well as tender, sweet, touching, and fulfilling and Sherlock thought that he could never find this tedious, not in the slightest.

John merely grunted a reply, "Hrmph?"

"Be here when I wake up, okay?"

John lips quirked slightly, already half asleep. "Always," he answered. Sherlock smiled, as his eyes closed, and the two feel asleep wrapped together on the sofa in 221B, reunited and resting for their next great adventure.

* * *

><p><em>AN<em>

_So we've come to the end. What did you think? Was it worth it? I do hope that you enjoyed. Sorry for any OOC-ness that occurred here.  
><em>

_I would just like to say thank you and extend all the love and jam and jumpers to everyone who has followed this story. This was my first fic. It started as a one-short, morphed into a two shot, and then became this multi-chapter creature with sequels and prequels. None of this would have happened without your encouragement. So thank you! As much as you guys have looked forward to updates (or at least I hope you have) I have looked forward to hearing from you. _

_Ending this has been really sad. Someone asked me why I was stopping here and I had to say that, for me, the purpose of this story was to 1. deal with my Reichenbach angst, and 2. have John and Sherlock deal with theirs and get to a point where they understood and could trust each other again. They are in that place now, which is why I'm stopping this story here. BUT there is more to come for these two. Now that they've reestablished this basic trust they have to figure out how to redefine what they are to each other and how to negotiate this new relationship. So the sequel is literally the next chapter in this story. I'm going to start writing tomorrow, so look for the first chapter this weekend. I'm also starting a prequel (so much Mycroft, Lestrade, and Sherlock). So, if you want you can stop here and all shall be happy, or you can join me for more adventures, angst, introspection, character development, and genuine love._

_Once more, THANK YOU to all of you who have taken the time to give me feedback and encourage this story. You're what made this so awesome! _

_Lots of love,_

_Nic_


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